•    9 


AT  THE  SIGN  OF  THE  VAN 


COPYRIGHT   1914   BY 
MITCHELL   KENNERLEY 


PRINTED  IN   AMERICA 


TO   JAMES   BARNES 

A  faithful  witness  of  these  wanderings 


X^\  H,  the  skies  are  blue  and  a  ribboned  road 
i     i          Shall  the  pilgrim's  heart  beguile; 
V^X      Yet  hurry  not  so  fast  with  your  load. 

For  there  is  many  a  mile. 

And  it's  here  a  friend  and  there  a  friend 

To  bear  your  hand  a  while; 
But  none  will  go  to  the  journey's  end, 

And  few  will  stay  the  mile. 

M.  M. 
New  York,  January,  1914. 


CONTENTS 


BOOK   THE    FIRST:     AT   THE  SIGN    OF 

THE  VAN 

PAGE 

A  PARABLE  n 

SPRING  SONG  IN  HARLEM  15 

FAREWELL  Tt>  NEW  YORK  20 

ONE  SUMMER  23 

IN  THE  COUNTRY  30 

PRO  DOMO  SUA  38 
SAMPLES  OF  His  PHILOSOPHY.  SHEEP  AND  GOATS  44 

RIFTS  IN  THE  LUTE  59 

A  BLANK  67 

HEGIRA  70 

GOD'S  ACRE  74 

A  RESURRECTION  79 

A  CHILD  Is  BORN  82 

THE  RETURN  88 

His  WANDERINGS  OVER  94 

THE  LITERARY  MOTIVE  98 

A  BROTHER- AT- ARMS  103 

BOOK  THE  SECOND:     ADVENTURES 
IN  LIFE 

CROSSING  THE  FERRY  in 

THE  LIONS  115 


2G8.TE 


BOOK  THE  FIRST 

(TO   WILLIS   GEORGE   NASH) 
AT  THE   SIGN   OF   THE   VAN 


THIS  is  the  best  of  me;  for  the  rest,  I  ate,  and 
drank,  and  slept,  loved,  and  hated,  like 
another;  my  life  was  as  a  vapor,  and  is 
not;  but  this  I  saw  and  knew:  this,  if  anything  of 
mine,  is  worth  your  memory. 

Ruskin. 


AT  THE  SIGN  OF 

THE  VAN 


A    PARABLE 

THERE  was  once  a  man  who  had  a  large 
number  of  valuable  and  interesting  opin- 
ions which  he  wished  to  get  before  the 
public.  The  most  convenient  way  that  occurred  to 
him, — having  in  view  the  intractability  of  editors, — 
was  to  start  a  magazine  of  his  own.  There  were, 
of  course,  difficulties  in  the  way,  but  these  were 
finally  overcome  by  the  man  burning  to  discharge 
his  mind  of  the  said  valuable  and  interesting  opin- 
ions. Accordingly,  the  man  wrote  out  all  his  valu- 
able and  interesting  opinions  and  published  them  in 
the  first  number  of  his  magazine.  There  he 
stopped;  perpetual  writer's  cramp  and  inspissation 
of  ideas  set  in.  While  his  friends  were  sending  in 
their  valuable  and  interesting  criticisms,  he  wisely 
decided  to  get  out  of  the  publishing  business.  No 

II 


12        AT  THE   SIGN   OF   THE   VAN 

second  or  further  numbers  of  his  magazine  ever 
appeared;  the  first  issue  was  the  last.  They  say  it 
is  hard  to  get  a  copy. 

I  am  not  going  to  claim  for  this  person  that  he 
was  the  wisest  man  of  whom  history  preserves  the 
record.  I  should  perhaps  think  so  were  it  not  for 
his  confession,  privately  made,  that  he  stopped 
short  because  he  had  no  more  to  say,  having  ex- 
hausted himself  in  the  first  great  effort.  When  one 
is  "all  in,"  there  is  no  particular  credit  in  losing 
the  fight. 

It  is  added  that  the  man  lived  happily  ever  after- 
ward, but  I  do  not  envy  his  subsequent  felicity — it 
seems  to  me  he  should  have  had  more  fun  for  his 
money.  Having  had  some  experience  in  kind  and 
paid  full  price  for  it,  I  must  feel  a  certain  contempt 
for  even  so  heroic  a  quitter.  On  the  whole,  al- 
though there  is  (God  knows)  too  much  publishing 
in  the  world,  I  should  not  hold  up  this  man  as  an 
object  of  emulation.  It  is  just  that  men  should  not 
be  able  to  point  even  to  a  pelt  of  him  on  the  barn 
door  of  achievement. 

For  it  is  nothing  to  publish  your  opinions  once, 
or  even  twice — the  test  lies  in  maintaining  them — in 
bleeding  and  suffering  for  them — in  fighting  for 
them  against  hope  and  staying  in  the  fight  at  any 
cost  and  at  any  hazard.  Do  you  know  that,  with 
all  our  talk  of  freedom  of  opinion,  there  is  really 
nothing  that  is  less  free?  It  is  perfectly  wonderful 


A    PARABLE  13 

how  the  world  labors  to  take  a  man's  opinions  away 
from  him;  or,  in  other  words,  to  convince  him  that 
he  is  wrong  and  to  make  him  take  its  opinions  in- 
stead. I  sometimes  fancy  that  the  public  which 
only  writes  letters  for  the  editor's  private  eye  has 
more  zeal  in  its  work  than  he.  At  any  rate,  herein 
are  the  difficulty,  the  danger  and  the  delight  of 
publishing.  The  man  who  has  a  bit  of  the  fighter 
in  him  will  surely  not  be  satisfied  with  a  single  dis- 
closure of  his  opinions — nor  will  the  world,  if  there 
be  any  spark  or  challenge  in  the  man.  So  you  see 
the  fitness  of  things  coincided  in  the  judgment  of  the 
person  who  published  but  once :  it  was  enough. 

Indeed  it  may  be  that  the  true  criterion  by  which 
a  writer  should  be  measured  is  his  power  to  provoke 
dissent.  If  he  can  make  trouble  there  is  probably 
something  in  him — the  world  is  not  moved  without 
cause.  I  would  not  seem  to  blarney  myself  by  the 
least  suggestion  here,  or  to  work  the  soft  pedal  in 
my  own  behalf — the  uncharitable  will  say  that  in 
any  event;  but  I  am  sometimes  rather  astonished  at 
the  number  of  people  who  think  it  worth  their  while 
to  disagree  with  this  little  magazine  and  to  write 
me  of  the  fact.  Certainly  I  never  proposed  to 
myself  to  agree  with  everybody — I  guess  not! — and 
some  candid  friends  say  that  my  one  constantly  suc- 
cessful effort  is  to  keep  down  my  circulation.  How- 
ever, I  am  consoled  in  this,  that  my  opinions  grow 
the  more  precious  to  me  as  I  realize  more  and  more 


14        AT  THE   SIGN   OF   THE   VAN 

what  it  costs  to  maintain  them — I  suspect  this  would 
not  be  so,  to  such  a  degree,  if  people  would  only  stop 
trying  to  take  them  away  from  me !  It's  curious, 
but  my  opinions  are  the  only  property  of  mine  that 
anybody  has  ever  sought  to  deprive  me  of — maybe 
because  they  are  the  only  things  by  which  I  have  ever 
set  much  value.  And  yet,  when  all  is  said,  I  am  not 
sure  that  I  have  any  opinions  at  all,  but  only  sym- 
pathies, which,  being  drawn  to  various  and  con- 
tradictory objects,  get  me  into  no  end  of  trouble. 
Thus,  I  have  a  degree  of  sympathy  with  every  shade 
of  religious  belief,  whatever  sectarian  name  it  may 
bear;  and  yet,  if  I  have  a  passion  at  all,  it  is  for  that 
faith  without  dogma,  that  religion  of  humanity,  per- 
haps the  ultimate  triumph  of  Christ,  in  which  I  be- 
lieve all  the  creeds  will  one  day  blend  and  disappear, 
— oh,  a  far  day,  I  grant  you ! 


II 

SPRING  SONG  IN  HARLEM 

IT  is  the  Spring  in  New  York  not  less  than  in 
green  country  places  of  which  the  heart  now 
begins  to  dream.  A  swarthy  Calabrian  grinds 
out  a  vernal  chant  under  my  window.  High  in  the 
air,  above  the  rataplan  of  the  street,  rise  the  stac- 
cato notes.  The  Calabrian's  wife  twirls  and  thumbs 
her  tambourine,  looking  up  expectantly.  For  a 
nickel  one  may  purchase  all  the  grace  and  gratitude 
of  the  South.  I  make  the  hazard  and  am  cor- 
respondingly rewarded.  The  dark  eyes  smile  their 
thanks  and  the  Calabrian  twitches  off  his  cap.  Nay, 
I  am  lagniapped  with  the  "Toreador's  Song,"  but, 
having  heard  it  overmuch  in  winter  concerts  and 
cafes,  I  feel  that  it  is  not  in  accord  with  the  Spring. 
This,  too,  is  the  Calabrian's  afterthought,  for,  the 
piece  ended,  without  soliciting  another  nickel  he 
lifts  his  organ  to  his  back  and  trudges  off  to  the  next 
block,  his  faithful  sposa  trailing  behind. 

More  Calabrian  organ-grinders  with  expectant 
wives  and  twirling  tambourines — one  feels  that 
everything  is  overdone  in  New  York  (except  the 

15 


1 6        AT  THE   SIGN   OF   THE   VAN 

Spring!).  Children  pour  with  joyous  tumult  from 
the  great,  many-storied  tenement  houses  into  the 
streets.  A  shrill  gamin  chorus  pierces  everywhere. 
Beggars  creep  out  from  their  winter  hiding  places 
and  with  their  manifold  deformities  movingly  accost 
the  passer-by.  A  policeman  suns  himself  at  the  cor- 
ner, in  easy  independence,  looking  with  professional 
tolerance  on  the  varied  din  and  disorder  of  an  early 
Spring  day  in  Harlem.  Herein  is  now  the  very 
heart  of  the  New  Jerusalem  and  in  this  particular 
section  few  but  Jewish  faces  are  seen.  Along  Fifth 
Avenue,  south  of  I25th  Street,  the  daughters  of 
Rebekah,  tumid  of  bosom,  voluptuous  and  over- 
ripe, promenade  in  all  their  garish  finery — the  Ori- 
ental in  the  Jewess  persists  after  years  of  American 
acclimation.  About  her  is  an  atmosphere  of  love 
that  breathes  of  harmony  with  the  Spring,  the  re- 
vival of  all  life  and  desire,  and  almost  seems  to 
chant  tempestiva  viro  with  the  music  of  every  bold 
curve,  challenging'  bust  and  flowing  line — a  some- 
what vulgar  and  disturbing  but  yet  sufficiently  native 
version  of  the  "Song  which  is  Solomon's."  An  end- 
less procession  of  go-carts  and  baby-carriages,  each 
holding  a  chubby  dark-eyed  miniature  of  the  race, 
suggests  the  solid  virtues  of  these  daughters  of 
Israel.  Truly  theirs  is  a  goodly  inheritance.  No 
people  get  more  sap  and  sweet  out  of  life  than  the 
Jews — and  it  is  Spring  in  New  York  I 

Still,  there  might  be  less  noise  about  it.     New 


SPRING    SONG    IN    HARLEM         17 

elements  constantly  make  themselves  felt  in  ear- 
deafening  clamor — a  conglomerate  inferno  that 
would  drive  Stentor  to  the  sign  language.  Don't 
kick! — it  is  the  jubilant  Spring  chorus  to  which  the 
scissors-grinder,  armed  with  a  cornet,  furnishes  a 
chattering  crescendo.  Fakers  and  hawkers  of  every 
sort  mingle  their  strident  challenges  with  voice  and 
horn,  with  hewgag  and  shofar.  The  facial  traits 
of  the  Jew  repeat  themselves  on  every  side  with  a 
persistent  monotony.  Men  lean  and  dark;  women 
brunette  and  overfleshed.  Now  and  then  a  man 
rarely  handsome  or  a  girl  of  singular  but  perishable 
beauty;  and,  occasionally,  a  head  that  recalls  the 
patriarchs.  That  feature  which,  according  to  Heine, 
has  become  curved  and  elongated  by  Jehovah  pull- 
ing the  Jew  around  during  so  many  ages,  is  here 
seldom  seen  in  caricature  dimensions.  Prosperity 
is  beautifying,  and,  if  you  will  permit  the  word, 
normalizing,  the  race.  You  will  not  have  a  better 
opportunity  to  observe  this  than  on  a  fine  early 
Spring  day  in  Harlem. 

With  the  first  genial  warmth  of  the  Spring  sun 
come  into  view  all  the  poor  devils,  waifs  and  strays 
of  humanity,  who  annually  renew  their  uncertain 
tenure  of  a  bench  in  the  public  parks  and  squares. 
Poor  snakes  they,  whom  the  vernal  warmth  rein- 
vests with  a  new  skin  and  a  timid  show  of  life  and 
speculation.  All  of  them  have  hard-luck  stories 
(which  are  often  not  without  a  charm  of  romance, 


i8 

kind  reader),  ending  always  with  a  request  for  "a 
little  assistance" — so  they  will  decently  phrase  it. 
Some  of  them  are  deserving,  more  not,  in  strict 
verity;  yet,  if  you  be  both  humane  and  philosophic, 
you  will  not  consider  the  point  too  curiously  nor 
seek  to  follow  your  alms  beyond  its  proximate  des- 
tination— the  petitioner's  pocket.  You  will  not  for- 
get that  this  poor  artist  in  sorrow,  who  for  an  obolus 
moves  your  secret  admiration,  is  also  of  the  Spring. 
No  doubt  the  most  lamentable  among  all  these 
heirs  of  misery  are  the  poor  fellows  who  have  just 
gotten  out  of  hospital  and  crawled  to  the  park  or 
square  for  a  sunbath.  There  you  may  see  them  on 
any  fine  day,  sunning  themselves  with  anxious  care, 
looking  at  the  backs  of  their  thin  white  hands  with 
the  insatiable  interest  of  sick  men  in  everything  that 
denotes  their  state,  or  turning  a  resentful  yellow 
eye  upon  you  should  you  step  into  their  sunshine. 
At  a  little  distance  roars  and  rattles  the  great  Babel 
from  which  they  have  dragged  themselves  with 
weary  effort.  Not  unlike  mariners  are  they,  es- 
caped after  long  stress  of  storm  and  shipwreck,  to 
die  in  the  harbor  that  gives  them  refuge.  For  cer- 
tain it  is  that  many  of  them  will  never  go  back  to 
the  great  Babel,  to  renew  the  hopeless  struggle  in 
which  they  were  baffled  and  broken.  Here  they 
will  sit  during  the  warm  Spring  days,  each  jealously 
claiming  his  end  of  bench  by  right  of  preemption 
and  indulged  by  his  fellows  in  that  poor  monopoly. 


SPRING    SONG    IN    HARLEM         19 

Here  shall  you  see  them  dozing  and  muttering  to 
themselves  in  the  manner  of  sick  men,  or  giving 
themselves  up  to  long  fits  of  blank  abstraction. 
Sometimes  a  feeble  argument  will  break  out  amongst 
them  and  voices  rise  high  and  shrill  in  the  futile 
fierceness  of  the  sick.  But  this  is  rare;  their  con- 
cern is  not  to  argue,  nor  even  to  think,  but  just  to 
sit  in  the  sun,  the  good  Spring  sun,  who  is  pouring 
his  heat  down  their  backs  instead  of  on  their  covered 
graves.  Healthy  though  you  be,  with  life  and  hope 
at  the  full,  the  sight  of  them  makes  you  shiveringly 
glad  of  the  sun  and  the  Spring. 


Ill 

FAREWELL  TO  NEW  YORK 

'Hoc  erat  in  votis. — HORACE. 

FAREWELL,  you  City  of  fuss  and  fake, 
Where  men  the  dollar  their  idol  make, 
Fit  spawn  of  you,  an  Arachne  fell, 
Weaving  your  web  for  the  sons  of  Hell ! 
Here's  one,  by  God!  that  is  glad  to  go 
And  leave  you  here  with  your  noisy  show, 
Your  foolish  wealth  and  your  flaring  vice, 
Your  honor  that  only  bids  for  a  price, 
Your  myriad-handed  iron  gin 
That  ever  crushes  the  slaves  of  sin. 

Farewell  to  your  fruitless  rush  and  roar, 
Where  a  life  is  a  breath  and  nothing  more; 
Where  the  swarming  thousands  of  every  race 
Insanely  fight  for  an  inch's  space ; 
Where  the  Devil  has  never  a  moment's  ease, 
Nor  can  tell  the  half  of  his  votaries; 
Where  human  pity  dies  in  the  heart, 

20 


FAREWELL   TO    NEW   YORK         21 

And  men  have  forgot  the  better  part; 
Where  the  only  lesson  that  all  learn  well, 
Is  the  surest  road  from  here  to  Hell! 

Adieu  to  the  monstrous  sweat  and  stew, 
Adieu  (ah  God!)  to  the  paramount  Jew; 
Farewell  to  the  Lesbians  of  the  pave, 
The  lure  and  the  prey  and  the  wiser  knave. 
So-long  to  the  dive  and  the  gilded  den, 
The  image  of  God  defaced  in  men, 
The  Satyr's  leer  and  the  wordless  shame 
That  makes  of  mercy  an  idle  name, 
And  turns  to  a  curse  the  thought  of  Him 
Who  died  for  these  on  the  gallows  limb. 

Farewell  to  your  thieves  of  high  degree, 
Fit  nurselings  they  of  your  "liberty"! 
With  none  so  bold  as  to  say  them  nay, 
In  the  House  of  Fraud  they  plunder  and  prey, 
Tearing  each  other  with  beak  and  claw, 
And  scorning  aught  save  the  harpies'  law. 
Oh,  Freedom,  blush  that  here  at  thy  gate 
Should  rise  a  portent  and  shame  so  great; 
Here,  where  thou  kindlest  thy  holy  flame 
And  callest  the  exiles  to  bless  thy  name ! 

Adieu  to  your  blare  and  boast  and  blague, 
To  your  scarlet  crimes  that  never  flag, 
To  your  evil  press  that  crowns  the  sum 


22        AT  THE   SIGN   OF  THE   VAN 

Of  lawless  deeds  with  a  premium. 
Farewell  to  your  fake  of  a  "better  class," 
Where  the  proudest  name  decks  the  perfect  ass, 
And  the  end  of  all  is  to  imitate 
The  fool  and  his  folly  degenerate; 
Where  virtue  has  sunk  to  a  thing  absurd, 
And  a  woman's  honor  dies  at  a  word. 

The  Devil's  luck  to  you  all ! — I  know 

A  place  where  the  things  of  God  yet  grow; 

Where  children  laugh  in  their  innocence, 

And  a  maiden's  blush  is  her  sole  defence; 

Where  the  buds  are  bursting  and  soon  the  green 

Shall  spread  over  all  the  gentle  scene; 

Where  a  man  may  live  out  his  earthly  lease, 

The  country  preaching  its  text  of  peace ; 

And  a  faithful  wife  and  a  thriving  brood 

Shall  people  the  pleasant  solitude. 

Pipe  on  to  your  dance  of  sin  and  death ! 

For  me  is  the  country's  vital  breath, 

The  nights  of  rest  and  the  days  of  calm, 

The  heart's  repose  and  the  spirit's  balm; 

Yea,  the  genial  task  of  a  mind  content, 

Rising  unforced  to  its  native  bent: — 

But  the  hollow  prize  that  you  call  success, 

The  idols  you  cherish  and  caress, 

The  life  that  you  live,  a  sham  and  a  lie, 

My  soul  will  no  more  of — good-bye,  good-bye! 


IV 

ONE     SUMMER 

SO  this,  then,  was  One  Summer  which  he  may 
well  count  as  gain,  since,  though  filled  with 
effort  and  anxiety,  the  labor  was  what  his 
hand  sought  to  do  voluntarily;  the  care  was  to  in- 
sure a  future  that  he  might  call  his  own.  Thus  he 
found  the  fleeting,  golden  days  all  too  few  for  his 
Task — time  and  he,  time  and  he  against  any  other 
two ! — but  somehow  time  seemed  to  fail  him.  Re- 
calling this  One  Summer,  so  swift,  so  memorable, 
now  with  the  declining  splendors  of  Autumn  about 
him,  he  can  but  regret  much  that  was  done  imper- 
fectly; much  that  in  the  heat  and  haste  of  perform- 
ance was  left  undone.  .  .  . 

The  very  beginning  of  it  (if  you  will  not  scorn 
a  simple  story)  was  in  the  early  Spring  when  the 
Family  moved  away  from  a  Flat  in  the  great  City, 
and  took  possession  of  the  Little  House  in  the 
Country.  Oh,  how  happy  the  Children  all  were, 
and  how  glad  to  escape  from  the  tyranny  of  the 
stony-hearted  Janitress!  No  more  threats  of  pun- 
ishment if  they  but  laid  a  finger  on  the  brasses,  or 

23 


24        AT  THE   SIGN   OF  THE   VAN 

tumbled  the  hall-mats,  or  played  on  the  front  stoop, 
or — horror  of  horrors! — pulled  the  janitor's  bell. 
There  were  no  brasses  at  the  Little  House — even  if 
there  had  been,  do  you  think  the  kind  Mother  would 
have  cared?  No  jealous  eye  watched  over  the  hall 
mats,  and  the  front  stoop,  which  was  actually  a 
Porch,  became  the  scene  of  Revels.  The  Youngest 
Girl  pondered  over  this  undreamed-of  liberty  for 
several  days,  until  at  last,  being  unable  to  contain 
her  innocent  wonder,  she  came  out  with — "Pa,  are 
You  the  Janitor?"  .  .  . 

What  joy  to  explore  the  Little  House  (that  was 
yet  immensely  large  as  compared  to  the  City  Flat)  ; 
full  of  cunning  alcoves  it  was,  and  out-of-the-way 
cubby-holes, — really,  the  Children  were  sure  it  was 
all  meant  as  a  playhouse  for  them.  There  was  a 
lovely  bedroom  for  each  pair  of  them,  and  each 
room  was  papered  "different,"  and,  to  the  great  joy 
of  the  Family,  the  Youngest  Girl  (who  is  of  an 
adorable  but  somewhat  touchy  disposition)  could 
now  have  a  bed  all  to  herself,  where  she  might 
stretch  her  short  legs  with  comfort.  And  then,  the 
most  ravishing  discovery  of  all,  there  was  the  nicest 
— the  Youngest  said  the  "nicicest" — Attic  you  ever 
heard  of,  with  three  large  rooms, — oh,  ever  so  much 
larger  than  our  make-believe  bedrooms  in  the  now 
despised  Flat,  which  the  Children  soon  began  to 
speak  of  as  belonging,  with  the  Janitress,  to  a  re- 
mote past, — though  even  that  contemned  residence 


ONE    SUMMER  25 

had  had  its  day  of  praise.  Of  course,  the  first  thing 
they  did  was  to  divide  up  among  themselves  this 
glorious  Attic,  laying  down  metes  and  boundaries  in 
the  manner  which  first  determined  the  Law  of  Prop- 
erty; nor  was  the  Youngest  Girl  a  whit  behind  the 
rest  in  staking  out  her  Claim  and  shrilly  asserting 
her  Title.  But  I  must  confess  that  they  all  agreed 
with  rare  accord  to  give  Papa  the  "lightiest"  room 
to  "do  his  writing  in,"  on  condition  that  he  would 
not  go  up  there  on  rainy  days  when  they  had  no 
other  place  to  play.  This  agreement  was  duly  rati- 
fied, and,  I  am  bound  to  say,  was  carried  out  in  a 
spirit  that  did  honor  to  the  contracting  parties. 

The  Children's  play  being  thus  provided  for, — 
and,  really,  what  concern  is  more  important  than 
that? — it  was  necessary  to  think  about  Papa's  Work. 
For,  absurd  as  it  may  seem,  there  was  to  be  a  Busi- 
ness started,  actually  a  Magazine  published,  in  the 
Little  House !  Well,  you  would  say  that  the  Good 
Fairies  had  planned  for  Papa's  Office,  as  for  the 
Children's  Attic — there  was  a  sewing  room  on  the 
shady  side  of  the  house,  with  two  windows  looking 
out  upon  a  tangle  of  greenery,  that  proved  just  the 
thing.  Here,  accordingly,  the  Office  was  installed, 
the  walls  decorated  with  some  humble  pieces  of  Art 
(not,  however,  without  Quality)  including  a  fine  im- 
pressionistic study  of  the  Editor  by  Samuel  Warner, 
F.  R.  A.  Then  a  typewriting  machine  was  procured 
and  set  up  on  a  strong  oak  table,  made  (in  his  own 


time)  by  Little  James  of  East  Aurora.  A  beautiful 
blooming  Country  Girl  was  next  engaged  to  operate 
it — and  the  Business  began. 

Oh,  it  was  very  slow  first  along,  and  Uncle  Sam 
and  the  printer  got  all  the  money — even  now  it's 
not  so  swift  but  that  you  can  see  the  wheels  move. 
Still,  the  wonderful  fact  was  that  it  did  actually 
begin,  and  continued,  by  fits  and  starts  at  first,  then 
regularly,  to  grow.  For  if  a  man  has  something  to 
say,  sincerely  and  in  his  own  voice,  be  sure  he  will 
get  an  audience,  however  small.  So  the  Postman, 
from  rare  stops  at  the  Little  House, — announced 
by  his  whistle  which  raised  at  once  hope  and  fear, — 
presently  fell  into  the  habit  of  leaving  something 
with  every  mail — there  were  only  two  a  day,  and 
during  the  first  blank  period  of  waiting,  it's  lucky 
there  were  not  more! 

Then  from  all  parts  of  the  country  letters  began 
to  come  in  a  steady  flow, — nay,  there  were  some 
bearing  foreign  stamps  and  even  a  few  from  clear 
'round  t'other  side  of  the  world, — a  fact  which 
greatly  exercised  the  imagination  of  the  Youngest 
Girl.  To  be  quite  candid,  not  all  of  these  letters 
brought  money  or  words  of  cheer — if  success  were 
so  easy,  it  would  not  be  worth  having!  No,  there 
were  letters  which  predicted  failure  and  defeat,  these 
written  by  "friends"  who  loved  the  Editor  too  well 
to  hide  the  "truth"  from  him;  hostile,  wounding 
letters  from  strange  hands  written  with  the  sole 


ONE    SUMMER  27 

purpose  of  inflicting  pain,  but  which  moved  only  his 
contempt;  letters  from  the  idly  curious  who  had  no 
hope  or  hand  to  give  the  struggler;  well-meant  let- 
ters, too,  that  yet  breathed  discouragement  and 
were  better  not  written  or  read,  since  they  but  con- 
firmed the  haunting  fear  of  self.  All  kinds  of  let- 
ters, indeed,  but  enough  of  the  right  sort,  thank 
God !  to  hearten  one  for  the  fight  and  point  the  way 
to  victory.  .  .  . 

Yes,  this  was  One  Summer  worth  living  for — One 
Summer  in  which  something  was  done  for  Life,  for 
Character,  for  Purpose.  Nor  does  he  regret  its  tale 
of  labor,  and  stress,  and  anxiety,  its  hope  too  easily 
depressed,  its  joy  too  easily  awakened,  its  unwise 
alternations  of  confidence  and  fear,  since  these  were 
redeemed  in  some  measure  by  loyalty  to  the  Task. 


HIS     REASONS     FOR     PUBLISHING 

[From  the  first  number  of  The  Papyrus, 
July,  1903] 

Why  do  I  publish  this  little  magazine? 

The  public,  I  am  told,  will  ask  the  question,  and 
I  should  make  a  clean  breast  of  it  in  the  first  number 
of  The  Papyrus. 

But  that  were  to  tell  the  "story  of  my  life,"  which 


28        AT  THE   SIGN   OF  THE   VAN 

is  so  marvellously  interesting  and  important  that  it 
would  fill  many  numbers  of  this  magazine. 

Perhaps  the  simplest  and  most  candid  answer  I 
could  make  to  the  question  is  this: 

I  am  putting  forth  this  little  magazine  because  all 
my  life  has  led  up  to  it  and  for  years  it  has  been  the 
dearest  wish  of  my  heart. 

The  reason  here  given  is  doubtless  unique  among 
the  explanations  of  publishers.  But  let  it  stand. 

There  is  a  proverb  of  indifferent  wisdom  that,  if 
you  only  wish  hard  enough  for  a  thing,  you  will  be 
sure  to  get  it. 

God  knows  I  have  wished  hard  enough  for  many 
things  which  I  did  not  get.  Perhaps  they  were  not 
good  for  me — would  I  might  believe  it  I — and  so  the 
just  fates  forbade. 

Alas!  are  we  ever  convinced  that  we  should  not 
have  had  what  we  wanted?  I  recall  my  own  early 
and  ungratified  desires  with  increasing  poignancy. 
As  an  old  man  I  know  I  shall  be  lamenting  the 
baubles  of  which  my  youth  was  cheated. 

And  this  little  magazine,  the  darling  first-born  of 
my  hope,  which  I  now  expose  with  fear  and  trem- 
bling to  the  cold  world's  charity, — do  not  think  it 
has  come  easily  to  me. 

Nay,  I  have  purchased  it  with  tears  and  travail — 
the  price  which  the  good  God  ordained  must  ever 
be  paid  for  the  fruits  of  love. 

Ah,  kind  reader,  you  who  make  so  small  account 


ONE    SUMMER  29 

of  these  few  pages,  sure  am  I  that  your  heart  would 
be  touched  with  a  warmer  sympathy  could  you  know 
by  what  hard  roads  I  have  reached  this  goal  of  my 
desire* 

And  now  that  we  are  fairly  met,  shall  we  not  go 
on  together,  taking  the  chance  of  the  road  and  gairv 
ing  courage  and  good  cheer  from  our  companion- 
ship? 

Dear  Friend,  into  your  eyes  I  may  never  look, 
your  bodily  presence  I  may  never  feel,  the  sound 
of  your  voice  I  may  never  hear:  yet  I  need  you  for 
the  long  way.  And  the  day  may  come  when  some 
words  of  mine  shall  lighten  the  journey  for  you. 

Our  most  precious  obligations,  are  they  not  to 
those  whom  we  have  never  seen?  Our  dearest  in- 
timacies, are  they  not  of  the  mind?  Our  most  loyal 
and  helpful  friends,  are  they  not  of  the  spirit? 


y 

IN    THE     COUNTRY 

WHEN  you  leave  Mount  Vernon's  main 
street,  following  the  trolley  road  toward 
the  heights  of  Pelham  and  New  Rochelle, 
you  begin  to  see  something  of  the  rare  beauty  of 
old  Westchester. 

I  am  writing  this  in  the  first  days  of  May,  with  a 
great  thankfulness  at  my  heart  that  I  have  at  last 
escaped  from  the  terrible  Scylla  that  but  a  few  miles 
to  the  south  crushes  the  lives  of  men.  Would  she 
were  farther  away  and  that  I  might  free  myself 
from  the  fear  that  some  night  she  will  steal  upon 
this  paradise,  blighting  its  innocence  and  beauty! 
Proudly  I  exclaim  with  an  almost  forgotten  poet — 

"God  made  the  Country  and  man  made  the 
Town." 

From  the  attic  window  at  which  I  write  (I  am 
thus  high  for  quiet  as  well  as  to  avoid  trespassing 
on  the  Good  Woman's  proper  domain),  I  look  out 
upon  a  fairy  landscape,  rich  in  trees  and  grass  and 
all  those  unnoted  gifts  of  outdoor  nature  which  have 
so  indescribable  a  charm  to  one  long  deprived  of 


IN    THE    COUNTRY  31 

them.  The  voices  of  my  children  gathering  early 
violets  reach  my  ear  like  the  broken  strains  of  a 
melody.  They  come  upstairs  presently  to  offer  me 
a  bouquet — in  the  City  I  fear  I  would  have  been 
vexed  at  this  interruption  of  my  task. 

But  in  the  country,  children — even  other  people's 
children — do  not  get  on  your  nerves.  That  is  a 
condition  of  the  accursed  flat  life.  Here  they  seem 
to  belong,  with  all  young  and  growing  things. 

Also  I  have  found  that  the  days  here  are  long 
enough  for  both  play  and  labor. 

There  is  always  plenty  of  time. 

In  the  country  one  does  not  mix  the  night  with  the 
day. 

Nature  is  the  great  worker  and  creator. 

We  can  attain  the  fountains  of  power  only  by 
getting  her  to  support  the  effort. 

The  nights  for  sleep  and  rest — the  days  for 
thought  and  toil  and  recreation. 

Health  is  the  first  Muse.  .  .  . 

Mr.  Bard,  who  has  chosen  for  his  hustling  em- 
blem the  Bee  (he  is  in  the  real  estate  line),  strikes 
me  as  not  the  least  interesting  citizen  of  Mount 
Vernon.  Whether  his  activities  have  any  relation 
to  the  cosmic  scheme  I  know  not,  but,  unlike  the 
pismire  diligence  of  many  persons  commended  by 
the  undiscerning,  they  are  pleasant  to  look  upon. 

Although  Mr.  Bard  belongs  to  all  the  fraternal 
organizations  hereabouts,  he  has  never  once  asked 


32        AT  THE   SIGN   OF  THE  VAN 

me  if  I  was  a  Brother.  Which  I  take  kindly  of 
him,  for  I  am  a  stranger  to  the  whole  realm  of  grips 
and  passwords,  never  joined  a  secret  society  in  my 
life,  and  never  took  a  pledge.  Every  one  to  his 
taste,  but  the  Brotherhood  of  Man  is  good  enough 
for  me. 

Yes,  I  know  it  will  shut  me  out  of  a  lot  of  things 
in  Mount  Vernon,  where  every  one  you  meet  be- 
longs to  some  society  or  other,  and  every  other  man 
you  bump  against  is  a  Past  or  Present  Grand.  I 
can  well  understand,  however,  that  life  would  be 
shorn  of  Romance  in  towns  like  this  without  the 
Pythians,  the  Templars,  the  Mystic  Shriners,  and 
the  various  other  Sir  Knights  of  the  plume  and 
helmet. 

No  doubt  my  bookish  tastes  have  had  much  to 
do  in  forming  what  some  people  might  call  an 
unsocial  habit.  A  good  book  has  always  seemed 
more  attractive  to  me  than  an  average  piece  of 
human  punk  in  a  tin  mitre.  And  I  never  could 
understand  how  it  added  to  your  culture  to  swallow 
a  Ritual  or  read  the  Psalm  of  Life  in  moving  tones 
to  some  worthy  aspirant  who  was  presently  to  be 
pounded  with  an  initiatory  stuffed  club. 

But  I  have  not  been  any  the  less  interested  in  that 
larger  fellowship,  the  Brotherhood  of  Man,  and  it 
seems  that  as  I  grow  older  tags  and  badges  of 
every  kind  have  less  and  less  significance  for  me. 
No  doubt  you  have  to  take  on  that  habit  early  in 


IN    THE    COUNTRY  33 

life,  like  most  others.  And  I  cheerfully  admit  that 
it  makes  life  the  brighter  and  busier  and  happier  for 
many  here,  as  in  Hoboken  and  Hackensack.  Think 
how  jejune  and  joyless  it  would  be  in  these  bully 
towns  without  the  parades  of  the  uniformed  so- 
cieties, the  paladins  of  the  silver  plume,  the  thirty- 
second  degree  lockstep  and  a'  that;  or  what  a  glory 
for  plain  Bill  Smith  to  rise  to  a  big  feathered  shako 
and  other  gorgeous  trimmings,  with  the  sounding 
title  of  Sir  Knight  Commander! 

Also  I  am  aware  that  the  eternal  lure  of  sex 
enters  into  all  this  splendiferous  business — a  motive 
never  absent  when  man  the  peacock  spreads  his  tail. 
And  then,  bless  my  soul,  we  have  the  Ladies'  Aux- 
iliaries ! 

But  I  am  for  the  Brotherhood  of  Man,  as  I've 
told  you,  and,  though  we  shall  not  live  to  see  it, 
nothing  is  surer  than  the  coming  thereof.  Oh, 
Diana  of  the  Ephesians  will  tear  her  lovely  hair 
and  send  her  walking  delegates  after  us  with  gnarled 
clubs,  for  the  business  of  making  tin  swords  and 
helmets  and  plumes  and  buttons  and  badges  is  a 
very  profitable  one.  My,  what  a  lot  of  money  will 
be  saved  when  all  that  flummery  goes  to  the  dump — 
money  that  the  Brotherhood  will  know  how  to  use 
in  the  true  interest  of  humanity.  No  make-believe 
mediaeval  millinery  or  variegated  small  clothes — off, 
off,  ye  lendings !  No  grips  or  passwords  either,  and 
no  flowery  flubdub  or  tedious  tommyrot  behind 


34        AT  THE   SIGN   OF   THE   VAN 

closed  doors.  No  more  of  those  wordy  rituals  which 
I  am  told  many  simple  fellows  spend  years  in  learn- 
ing by  heart,  thus  acquiring  a  cinch  on  the  Supreme 
Grand  and  Exalted  Ruler  business. 

No,  all  that  verbose  and  highfalutin  folderol  will 
be  cut  down  to  the  brief  declaration  made  by  a  Latin 
poet  more  than  two  thousand  years  ago — 

"I  am  a  man  and  nothing  that  concerns  humanity 
is  indifferent  to  me." 

All  sessions  will  be  open  and  public,  even  to  the 
passing  stranger,  and  the  gimlet-eyed  Inner  Guard 
will  be  booted  off  his  post  forever.  Furthermore, 
if  any  man  is  caught  trying  to  get  up  a  Ritual  again, 
he  will  be  disciplined  by  the  Brotherhood. 

Oh,  yes,  'twill  be  a  great  change,  and  I  shall  not 
venture  to  fix  the  exact  date  thereof.  But  I  guess  we 
may  look  for  it  about  the  time  men  take  their  feet 
out  of  the  trough  and  think  more  of  their  Cosmic 
destiny  than  of  what  goes  to  make  up  their  compost 
on  this  lower  plane. 


These  were  in  the  main  hopeful  days,  for  I  find 
this  cheerful  announcement  in  an  early  issue. 

I  hope,  and  shall  surely  try,  to  make  this  maga- 
zine better  and  better.  But  I  don't  mind  confessing 
to  the  sympathetic  reader  that  the  job  takes  all  my 
time.  Yes,  though  I  believe  in  the  union  labor 
principle,  I  am  working  such  hours  as  would  not  be 


IN    THE    COUNTRY  35 

tolerated  by  any  labor  union  in  the  land.     For  I 
am  my  own 

Editor, 

Business  manager, 

Cashier, 

Advertising  solicitor, 

Bookkeeper, 

Private  secretary, 

Correspondence  clerk, 

Proofreader, 

Copyholder, 

Factotum. 

And  I  sweep  out  the  office  and  polish  up  the  door- 
knob with  such  joy  in  my  work  as  I  have  not  here- 
tofore known. 

Because,  you  see,  I  cut  out  this  job  for  myself, 
and  I  like  it,  after  giving  the  service  of  my  brain 
for  years  to  others — who  paid  as  little  for  it  as  they 
might. 

Therefore,  I  am  working  as  hard  as  I  can;  and 
waiting;  and  hoping.  And  so  there  hasn't  been  a 
strike  yet  in  The  Papyrus  outfit — excepting  a  mild 
protest  from  the  Good  Woman  who  runs  the  Do- 
mestic End  and,  in  the  way  of  good  women,  now 
and  then  gets  a  bit  jealous  of  my  Job. 


A   NEW   SUBSCRIBER 

Here's  a  dollar  from  someone  in  Lockerbie  Street, 
With  the  name  plain  as  print  in  a  handwriting  neat. 
Yes,  'tis  his  sure  enough,  and  a  pulse  of  joy  fleet 
Says  a  "Howdy!"  to  Riley  in  Lockerbie  Street. 
Oh,  bother  the  number — it's  Five  Twenty  Eight — 
The  easiest  rhyme  you  can  think  of  for  "great"; 
And  a  great  man  lives  there,  quite  unspoiled  too  and 

sweet, 
Wttom  they  call  Mr.  Riley  in  Lockerbie  Street. 

Ah,  'tis  years  nearly  twenty  since  last  I  saw  him, 
And  wept  when  he  faltered  the  story  of  "JIM," 
And  followed  admiring  the  lure  of  his  art 
That  called  up  the  tears  and  the  smiles  of  the  heart. 

A  little  plain  man  speaking  soft-like  and  low: 
A  vast  sea  of  faces  intent  and  aglow: 
A  spirit  that  held  them,  now  clamant,  now  mute, 
While  the  hearts  of  a  thousand  obeyed  as  a  lute. 

No  more  was  the  wonder:    so  much  and  no  more, 
But  who  shall  the  cause  and  the  secret  explore? 
Half  jester,  half  poet,  whole  wizard  and  wit. 
Can  he  himself  tell  us  the  marvel  of  it? 

Just  a  square  bit  of  paper,  but  on  it  a  name 

That  is  mellow  with  genius  and  golden  with  fame; 


IN    THE    COUNTRY  37 

And  memories  rising  with  antiphon  sweet, 
Cry  a  hail  to  the  Poet  in  Lockerbie  Street. 

Let  me  see  that  again — yes,  'tis  his  very  fist 

(Can  you  think  for  this  moment  what  I  would  have 

miss'd?) 

'Tis  the  name  that  the  hearts  of  our  children  repeat: 
There's  only  one  Riley,  one  Lockerbie  Street! 


VI 

PRO  DOMO  SUA 

THERE  is  a  little  house  (yet  large  enough) 
on  the  slope  of  a  low  hill. 
A  green  tree  stands  like  a  sentinel  be- 
fore it. 

It  is  a  very  young  tree  with  fresh  foliage  and 
seems  all  a-tremble  with  the  rapture  of  its  glad 
green  life. 

If  you  were  to  watch  closely  you  would  see  that 
now  and  then  the  tree  bends  lovingly  toward  the 
house  as  if  to  whisper  some  secret  of  the  Night  and 
the  Silence.  What  companionship  so  sacred  and 
beautiful  as  this  of  the  house  and  the  tree? 

Other  friends  of  that  house  may  prove  unfaithful 
and  turn  away,  but  the  tree  will  never  change  in  its 
fond  allegiance. 

For  many  a  summer  it  will  continue  to  spread  its 
grateful  shade  before  the  door — for  many  a  winter 
it  will  stand  a  shield  and  protection  against  the 
storm.  Only  death  can  put  an  end  to  its  loving 
loyalty  and  service.  .  .  . 

Soon  a  door  at  the  side  of  the  little  house  opens 
38 


PRO    DOMO    SUA  39 

and  a  small  boy  with  red  hair  (his  mother  says 
auburn)  and  the  look  of  an  Irish  leprechaun  peers 
cautiously  about. 

Around  the  corner  of  the  house  with  a  joyous 
romp  comes  a  little  girl  still  younger  than  the  small 
boy  and  evidently  a  sister  to  him.  These  two  fall 
to  playing  noisily  enough,  but  with  all  the  good 
humor  in  the  world. 

Presently  they  are  joined  by  three  older  children, 
two  girls  and  a  boy,  the  latter  a  fine  fellow  of  twelve 
years.  Then  all  come  to  the  front  of  the  house  and 
begin  to  play  merrily  some  childish  game  under 
the  guardian  tree. 

I  think  I  have  seen  them  before — oh,  yes!  and 
two  besides  these,  the  youngest  of  all,  are  missing — 
one  a  lovely  boy  whom  this  heart  shall  ever  miss. 

Now  the  door  in  the  porch  opens  and,  as  the 
mother  of  the  children  comes  forth  with  the  morning 
light  on  her  fair  hair,  I  see  that  the  tree  bends 
quickly  over  the  porch,  seems  to  whisper  something, 
and  then  straightens  up  again,  with  an  air  of  indif- 
ference and  a  suspicious  rustling  of  its  leaves. 

What  did  the  tree  say,  oh  my  heart,  what  did  the 
tree  say?  .  .  . 

That  in  a  few  short  months,  ere  its  leaves  shall 
tremble  at  the  first  warning  breath  of  Autumn,  there 
will  be  a  new  Life  in  the  little  house  on  the  low 
hill. 

Ah,    this   is   not   the   brooding  young   mother's 


40        AT  THE   SIGN   OF  THE  VAN 

thought,  while  she  looks  with  pensive  gaze  upon  her 
children  at  play. 

Not  a  new  Life — no,  not  a  new  Life!  for  she 
believes  (though  she  will  not  say  it)  that  the  kind 
God  of  mothers  will  in  this  way  restore  one  of  her 
lost  babes. 

Ah,  but  which  shall  it  be,  dear  God,  which  shall 

it  be! 

***** 


HOUSEHOLD   PSALM 

Take  up  the  Harp  of  Life  now  and  sing  a  true 
song — 

Of  her  whose  fruitful  love  hath  filled  thy  house 
with  the  joy  and  the  laughter  of  children. 

Who  hath  often  gone  down  into  the  Shadow  for 
thee,  while  thou  hast  hardly  pained  thy  little  finger 
for  her  sake. 

Who  sees  her  beautiful  youth  departing  without 
regret,  content  to  find  it  again  in  the  daughters 
springing  up  at  her  side. 

Whose  only  error  hath  ever  been  in  loving  thee 
too  much. 

Whose  love,  humble  yet  divine,  teaches  thee  more 
than  all  the  treasure  of  thy  books  and  hath  ever 
enriched  thee  beyond  thy  dreams. 

Filling  the  house  with  its  spirit  of  quiet  sacrifice 
and  shaming  the  self  in  those  that  look  upon  it. 


41 

Knowing  no  fickleness  or  unrest — such  as  thy 
bosom  often  accuses  thee  of — nor  ever  harboring  a 
thought  of  falsehood. 

Giving  to  thee  ever  more  than  thy  due,  though 
thou  askest  so  much, — nay,  putting  God  Himself  in 
her  debt. 

Walking  in  the  better  way  by  a  sure  instinct,  yet 
going  not  so  far  ahead  but  that  the  radiance  which 
lights  her  may  still  fall  on  those  who  stumble  fear- 
fully behind. 

Striving  to  lead  her  little  flock  to  Heaven,  yet 
unwilling  to  leave  one  behind,  though  it  be  at  the 
peril  of  her  soul. 

Praying  silently  against  all  things  that  vex  her 
path;  setting  her  pure  and  sinless  hope  against  the 
worst  that  the  world  can  do. 

Believing  in  God,  and  still  believing  in  God,  and 
always  believing  in  God,  with  a  faith  that  gives  to 
religion  its  best  sanction. 

Happy  for  thee  if  thou  shalt  be  deemed  worthy 
to  clasp  her  hand  at  the  Awakening — ah !  well  thou 
knowest  thou  art  most  unworthy.  God  knows  it, 
too,  but  even  He  hath  not  power  to  make  her  happy 
without  thee! 

Think  of  this  now  and  then  during  the  days  she 
may  be  yet  left  to  thee. 


42        AT  THE   SIGN   OF  THE  VAN 
A  LETTER 

LITTLE  SWEETHEART, — 

You  are  to  be  taken  away  from  me  and  I  am  to 
see  you  only  at  wide  intervals.  I  have  loved  you 
with  a  perfect  love  since  God  first  sent  you  to  me — 
the  one  unspoiled  blessing  of  all  the  dreary  years. 
You  were  the  very  spring  of  hope  to  me: — when 
they  brought  you,  a  sweet,  rosy,  laughing  babe,  into 
my  sick  room,  I  resolved  to  live  for  your  sake. 
Shadow  has  never  come  between  us,  and  now  in  your 
adorable  seventh  year  I  know  that  your  baby  heart 
is  wholly  mine.  Oh,  yes,  I  know  that  and  you  too 
know  it,  though  why  you  could  not  tell,  for  in  a 
sense  our  love  has  been  a  wonderful  secret  just  be- 
twixt us  two,  as  the  rarest  love  must  always  be. 
God  grant  that  your  loving  heart  may  not  bring  you 
to  suffer  overmuch  in  the  far-coming  years ! 

Your  brief  life  has  been  all  joy  to  me — a  some- 
thing magical  snatched  from  the  beauty  of  each 
passing  season.  What  happy  romps  we  have  had 
together!  What  delicious  confidences,  when  you 
would  slip  into  my  bed  of  a  morning  and  prattle 
your  little  tales  into  my  ear !  What  merry  meetings 
at  the  corner  on  summer  evenings  when,  daisy- 
crowned  or  carrying  a  little  nosegay,  you  would  lie 
in  wait  for  me !  What  good  times  when  you  would 
sit  in  your  own  place  next  me  at  dinner,  or  throned 
in  your  own  special  rocker,  and  chatter  of  the  day's 
events  in  school!  What  pride  to  show  me,  one 
memorable  day,  your  little  name  scrawled  in  your 
own  first  handwriting — ah,  how  I  kissed  it!  What 
joy  to  burst  upon  me  with  the  glorious  news  that 
you  were  at  the  head  of  your  class ! 


PRO    DOMO    SUA  43 

To  see  your  childish  beauty  flourish  daily  like  a 
flower,  to  mark  the  unfolding  loveliness  of  your 
soul  and  heal  my  own  spirit  in  the  blessedness 
thereof,  to  watch  the  delightful  play  of  your  April 
humors,  to  note  the  development  of  your  eager  mind 
and  its  leap  from  surprise  to  surprise, — this,  my 
darling,  is  the  precious  thing  I  am  called  upon  to 
put  by.  .  .  . 

I  write  you  this  farewell  with  your  dear  baby 
name  rising  ever  to  my  lips  and  the  thought  of  you 
an  unuttered  prayer  in  my  heart.  I  write  it  at  home 
while  you  are  at  school,  unconscious  of  the  separa- 
tion so  near;  and  I  set  it  down  here  in  the  little  book 
that  your  tiny  hands  were  wont  to  help  with  on 
"mailing  days," — the  little  book  that  was  born  in 
the  same  blessed  year  as  yourself. 

You  do  not  remember,  but  once,  when  you  were 
only  four  years  old,  I  was  away  from  home  two 
weeks  or  longer.  On  my  return  you  climbed  upon 
my  knee  and,  looking  through  me  with  big  reproach- 
ful eyes,  said — Oh,  Papa! — /  wanted  you  so!  .  .  . 
That  was  the  sweetest  confession  ever  made  to  me. 
That  is  the  thought  I  shall  always  keep  of  you. 

Farewell,  dear  innocent.  In  days  to  come,  when 
perhaps  I  shall  be  no  more,  you  will  find  this  letter 
here.  Then  you  will  remember  a  little  .  .  .  and 
understand. 


VII 

SAMPLES  OF   HIS   PHILOSOPHY.      SHEEP  AND  GOATS 

I  WONDER  what  the  Lord  will  do  about  the 
bad  people  who  are  better  than  the  good.  I 
would  not  add  to  His  embarrassments,  but 
the  theologians  have  left  the  matter  unsettled,  and 
somebody  must  attend  to  it.  And  really  I  don't 
see  how  the  thing  is  to  be  arranged,  according  to 
the  received  ideas — at  least  I'm  sure  that  only  God 
can  do  it. 

For  myself,  I  have  lived  only  one  man's  life,  but 
it  has  been  pretty  well  divided  up  in  experience  of 
the  good  and  the  bad,  as  these  distinctions  are  com- 
monly made.  Some  of  the  good  have  been  good  to 
me  and  more  of  the  bad.  Generally  speaking,  I 
could  have  done  without  the  good — would  have  had 
to  do  without  them,  rather — but  I  could  not  have 
done  without  the  bad. 

They  have  succored  me  in  need. 

They  have  visited  me  in  the  prison-house  of  sick- 
ness. 

They  have  cheered  me  in  adversity  and  braced  me 
up  when  I  was  falling  down. 

44 


SAMPLES  OF  HIS   PHILOSOPHY        45 

They  have  given  me  love  when  I  most  wanted  it 
and  asked  nothing  in  return. 

I  owe  my  best  hopes  and  my  life  itself  to  men 
who  never  have  sat  on  the  benches  of  the  righteous. 
If  these  men  must  be  damned,  I  should  prefer  to  be 
damned  with  them — but  we  have  put  away  the 
hellish  belief  in  damnation. 

I  have  known  common  gamblers  to  keep  their 
word  better  than  men  who  wore  the  livery  of  re- 
ligion. 

I  have  known  kindness  and  charity,  daily  ex- 
hibited, among  bad  people,  which  I  have  rarely  seen 
among  respectable,  church-going  persons. 

I  am  not  sure,  but  I  suspect  that  a  religion  which 
makes  us  so  comfortable  about  the  world  to  come  is 
not  the  best  cure  for  selfishness  in  this. 

The  most  smiling  and  conscienceless  liars,  the 
coldest  hearts,  the  strictest  lovers  of  self,  I  have 
met  with,  were  men  who  played  close  to  re- 
ligion— oh,  very  close!  I  do  not  say  that  relig- 
ion should  bear  the  blame  for  men  of  this  breed — 
I  simply  state  my  experience.  It  is  only  fair  that  I 
should  also  set  down  here  that  I  have  known  a 
smaller  number  of  men  who  were  not  alone  sincerely 
religious,  but  good  to  the  core. 

Still,  so  far  as  the  strictly  human  virtues  are  con- 
cerned,— generosity,  charity,  unselfishness,  human- 
ity,— I  have  seen  far  more  of  them  among  the  bad 
than  among  the  good  people.  I  do  not  attempt  to 


46        AT  THE   SIGN   OF  THE  VAN 

explain  the  contradiction — I  merely  state  my  per- 
sonal experience. 

And  whisper! — I  know  there  is  much  good,  too, 
among  those  poor  women  whom  society  has  marked 
with  a  red  stigma  and  who  bear  the  burden  of  the 
world's  shame.  Kindness,  and  womanly  pity,  and 
forgiveness  of  injuries — oh,  such  injuries,  my 
brother! — and  the  sorrow  of  the  lost  and  other  sad 
sweet  blossoms  of  pain  that  bloom  like  flowers  amid 
the  mire  of  their  lives.  But  God  will  take  note  of 
these  as  of  the  finest  wreaths  in  the  Conservatory  of 
Virtue 

When  I  speak  of  the  goodness  which  I  have  ex- 
perienced at  the  hands  of  bad  people  I  do  not  refer 
to  criminals  (though  I  have  known  much  good  also 
among  this  class) — I  mean  people  on  whom  the 
strictly  respectable,  church-going  community  cast  an 
eye  askance.  These  people  are  somehow  attainted 
and  declassed  by  the  fact  of  their  separation  from 
the  orthodox  community.  Of  course  in  our  day  such 
a  distinction  is  not  of  much  importance,  except  in 
the  smaller  towns  and  cities  where  the  religious  in- 
terests are  strong  enough  to  make  themselves  felt 
in  a  social  way  and  where,  I  am  told,  even  business 
is  carried  on  with  an  eye  to  the  Lord's  profit.  In 
the  larger  cities,  however,  the  people  whom  I  have 
described  as  bad  people  are  permitted  to  live  their 
lives  as  they  please.  There  are  very  many  of  them 
in  New  York  and  they  help  to  make  that  city  the 


SAMPLES  OF  HIS  PHILOSOPHY        47 

kindest  and  most  charitable  and  the  pleasantest  to 
live  in  of  all  the  great  cities  of  the  world.  How- 
ever, the  fact  remains  that  they  do  not  come  up  to 
the  ruling  notions  as  to  respectability,  religious  prin- 
ciples and  what  is  called  social  standing.  I  dare  not 
compare  them  with  the  "best  people"  of  any  com- 
munity, because  I  have  no  personal  knowledge  as  to 
what  is  covered  by  the  phrase. 

For  myself,  I  should  not  care  to  live  in  a  world 
of  conventionally  good  people,  with  all  the  bad 
people  excluded  who  have  done  so  much  for  me. 
A  minister's  heaven  is  not  my  idea  of  Paradise, 
and  Father  Dominic's  version  suits  me  no  better. 
I  have  a  poor  notion  that  the  Cosmos  is  larger  than 
either  scheme.  Then,  too,  I  had  rather  burn  than 
be  bored  eternally.  Not  that  I  bear  the  least  ill- 
will  toward  religion — if  we  didn't  want  it  badly  we 
wouldn't  have  so  much  of  it.  But  such  a  world  as 
I  have  fancied,  given  up  wholly  to  the  orthodox 
people,  would  be  duller  and  more  unbearable  than 
the  present  one,  lacking  the  class  which  furnishes 
most  of  the  entertainment.  However,  there  is  no 
need  to  borrow  trouble  on  so  large  a  scale,  for  the 
good  Lord,  who  is  Himself  a  lover  of  variety  and 
who  perhaps  would  not  care  to  be  bored  by  a  uni- 
versal church  picnic,  has  provided  against  this  by 
making  the  existing  satisfactory  distribution  of  good 
and  bad  people. 


48        AT  THE   SIGN   OF   THE   VAN 

Still,  I  wonder  what  He  is  going  to  do  with  the 
bad  who  are  better  than  the  good! 


THE  FIRST  BORN 

Primogeniture  is  one  of  the  most  venerable  things 
in  the  world,  and  there  is  a  sort  of  religious  sanc- 
tion about  it.  The  English  people  esteem  it  as  a 
pillar  of  their  belauded  social  system,  and  to  main- 
tain it  they  put  up  with  the  law  of  entail  and  sundry 
other  inconveniences. 

All  of  which  does  not  change  the  fact  that  first- 
born children  are  commonly  mediocre  or  even  de- 
fective in  an  undue  ratio. 

The  empire  on  which  the  sun  never  sets  owes  a 
far  heavier  debt  to  younger  sons  than  to  first-born 
heirs;  the  latter  misdirect  at  home  as  in  the  Boer 
War,  while  the  former  die  splendidly  on  account  of 
their  blunders,  abroad. 

Primogeniture  is,  however,  one  of  the  most  sacred 
institutions  of  England,  and  Kipling's  flanneled  oafs 
will  uphold  it  with  the  last  drop  of  their  blood. 
Herein  is  a  tough  argument  against  early  marriage, 
for  it  is  nearly  certain  that  the  best  children  come 
late — the  best  in  point  of  body  and  brain. 

Other  things  being  fairly  equal,  the  man  of  forty 
will  have  a  better  and  brighter  child  than  the  man 
of  twenty-five.  Those  fifteen  years  of  character 


49 

building,  of  increased  experience  of  life,  of  added 
poise  and  self-control,  of  evolution  and  advance  gen- 
erally, count  for  much. 

You  will  find  that  very  few  great  men  were  only 
sons,  and  yet  fewer  the  first  born.  More  likely  are 
they  to  be  in  the  same  class  with  Franklin,  who  was 
one  of  the  youngest  of  seventeen,  and  who  tells  us 
that  he  saw  thirteen  of  his  brothers  and  sisters  at 
table. 

In  the  lively  process  of  scratching  fodder  for  this 
hearty  brood,  old  man  Franklin  doubtless  picked  up 
some  valuable  hints  which  he  passed  on  to  Benja- 
min, the  history  of  whose  elder  brothers  is  a  blank, 
my  lord ! 

Ripeness  tells:  the  green  and  salad  days  bring 
forth  fruit  after  their  kind. 

I  myself  drew  the  unlucky  number  thirteen  and 
family  legend  has  it  that  my  father  did  not  act  as 
though  he  had  won  the  grand  lottery.  I  reckon  that 
I  had  more  reasons  to  be  glad  of  it  than  my  parents. 
But  the  point  is  one  which  modesty  forbids  me  to 
argue. 

A  clever  woman  tells  me  that  there  is  no  estimat- 
ing the  trouble  caused  by  the  first-born  of  early 
marriages.  This,  she  says,  is  easily  understood  in 
the  light  of  our  present  knowledge  of  prenatal  influ- 
ences. The  first  child  is  the  moral  and  emotional 
scapegoat  of  early  marriages.  Upon  him  are  visited 
the  follies  and  weaknesses  of  his  parents  at  a  time 


50        AT  THE   SIGN   OF   THE   VAN 

when  their  characters  are  not  really  formed.  The 
languors,  the  ardors,  the  fickleness  and  coquetry  of 
courtship,  the  varying  gusts  and  flaws  of  amorous 
passion,  the  whims  and  freaks  and  quarrels,  the 
extravagance  of  possession,  the  unbridled  desire  of 
the  honeymoon, — all  these  things  are  bound  to  mark 
the  first  child. 

If  Romeo  and  Juliet  had  had  a  son,  he  would 
have  been  the  chief  scandal  or  the  village  idiot  of 
Verona. 

Nothing  comes  out  of  the  melting  pot  but  what 
has  been  put  into  it.  Self-indulgence,  petulance, 
fickleness  and  instability  are  the  natural  product  of 
the  things  above  mentioned  and  they  are  the  ear- 
marks of  many  first-born  children. 

Philosophers  are  of  the  opinion  that  it  is  quite 
impracticable  for  a  son  to  choose  his  own  father, 
else  I  should  advise  any  such  fo  pick  a  sage  but  not 
unsound  gentleman  between  forty  and  fifty. 

His  own  youth  will  have  less  to  answer  for. 


THE  SUPERANNUATED  MAN 

Is  it  true  that  men  are  "all  in"  at  forty,  their  best 
powers  exhausted,  their  initiative  atrophied  and  their 
usefulness  practically  at  an  end?  So  says  that  mel- 
ancholy Jaques  who  calls  himself  Dr.  Osier.  Let 
us  see  how  this  is. 


SAMPLES  OF  HIS   PHILOSOPHY        51 

I  am  myself  a  little  shy  of  the  fatal  term,  and,  if 
I  propose  myself  as  an  example,  it  is  only  for  the 
sake  of  arguing  the  point. 

To  begin  with,  I  will  confess  that,  having  been 
somewhat  of  a  spendthrift  of  energy  in  my  youth, — 
having  also  done  more  than  a  fair  share  of  hard 
work, — I  am  now  inclined  to  measure  my  tasks  and 
proportion  my  effort  with  a  wiser  care.  I  am  not 
afraid  of  the  task,  I  do  not  recoil  from  the  effort: 
I  simply  feel  that  I  have  neither  time  nor  energy  to 
waste  in  those  often  fruitless  attempts  which  filled 
up  so  much  of  my  youth.  This  is  merely  to  say  that 
I  think  I  have  learned  how  to  work.  I  do  not  now 
work  so  many  hours  as  formerly,  but  there  is  no 
need,  since  I  know  better  what  I  want  to  do  and 
what  I  can  do.  In  other  words,  I  have  learned  to 
simplify  and  to  concentrate. 

Youth  is  discipline ;  maturity  is  performance.  But 
I  will  not  deny  that  there  is  about  the  eighth  lustrum 
a  certain  abatement  of  that  first  fine  enthusiasm 
which,  added  to  genius,  now  and  then  works  miracles 
in  the  world.  And,  could  that  enthusiasm  be  pro- 
longed beyond  the  early  thirties,  it  would  at  least 
sweeten  the  portion  of  labor.  Nature  for  her  own 
purpose  dulls  the  edge  of  this  eager  appetite — per- 
haps she  is  unwilling  that  too  much  work  should 
be  done. 

The  instance  of  a  Rafael,  a  Byron  or  a  Shelley 
proves  nothing,  for  these  names  belong  to  the  exempt 


52        AT  THE   SIGN   OF   THE   VAN 

category  of  genius ;  and  Dr.  Osier  has  laid  his  hang- 
man's hands  upon  all  sorts  and  conditions  of  men. 
Besides,  it  is  not  to  be  overlooked  that  poetry  is 
chiefly  an  affair  of  the  passions,  and  no  one  will  dis- 
pute Dr.  Osier  that  more  poems  are  written  and 
children  begotten  (though  not  always  acknowl- 
edged) between  twenty-five  and  thirty-five  than  in 
later  years.  But  the  question  is  not  one  of  poetry 
or  poets,  and,  moreover,  instances  of  a  contrary 
kind  may  be  cited.  Rather  extraordinary  instances, 
too;  as  Dante,  who  was  past  forty  when  he  did  some 
of  his  best  work  on  the  Divine  Comedy;  Michael 
Angelo  and  Leonardo  da  Vinci,  whose  genius  lost 
nor  heat  nor  power  under  the  frost  of  years ;  Mil- 
ton, past  fifty  when  he  gave  Paradise  Lost  to  the 
world;  Voltaire,  writing  a  tragedy  at  eighty-one  and 
a  hundred  books  between  youth  and  old  age ;  Goethe, 
producing  the  most  splendid  flower  of  his  genius, 
the  second  Faust,  when  he  was  past  the  Psalmist's 
allotted  tale. 

In  my  humble  judgment,  an  intellectual  worker 
attains  his  best  at  forty  (I  have  said  that  I  am  still 
a  little  shy),  and  not  before  that  age.  If  there  be 
any  falling  off  in  creative  energy,  the  loss  is  more 
than  balanced  by  surer  self-knowledge,  maturer 
judgment,  firmer  purpose,  poise,  singleness  of  aim, 
and  that  clearing  of  the  jnner  vision  which  comes 
only  with  the  years. 

I  do  not  believe  that  the  best  work  or  the  most 


SAMPLES  OF  HIS  PHILOSOPHY,        53 

work  is  done  by  men  under  forty.  It  is  not  the 
best  when  the  quality  is  closely  considered;  it  is  not 
the  most  when  the  worthless  has.  been  thrown  away. 

A  man  who  wrote  very  excellent  plays  both  be- 
fore and  after  forty  offers  me  an  illustration. 

Clown — What  is  the  opinion  of  Pythagoras  con- 
cerning wild  fowl? 

Malvolio — That  the  soul  of  our  grandam  might 
haply  inhabit  a  bird. 

Clown — What  thinkest  thou  of  his  opinion? 

Malvolio — I  think  nobly  of  the  soul  and  no  way 
approve  his  opinion. 

Taking  a  hint  from  Malvolio,  I  think  nobly  of 
the  man  of  forty  (and  upward)  and  no  way  ap- 
prove the  opinion  of  this  truculent  Osier.  He 
should  be  made  to  walk  his  own  dead  line. 


THE     LAST     SUPERSTITION 

"The  law  is  an  ass,"  said  Mr.  Pickwick  on  a  cele- 
brated occasion. 

No  better  popular  definition  has  ever  been  given, 
but  it  leaves  some  things  to  be  said. 

The  mental  processes  of  an  ass  are  relatively 
simple,  at  least  on  the  negative  side :  we  know  what 
he  will  not  do.  This  cannot  be  said  of  the  law — 
out  of  that  confusion  thrice  confounded  we  never 
can  guess  what  will  issue. 


54        AT  THE   SIGN   OF   THE   VAN 

In  every  community  a  large  and  highly  paid  body 
of  men  are  set  apart  to  expound  or  administer  the 
law.  They  draw  their  salaries,  they  pocket  their 
fees,  they  take  their  retainers — the  law  remains  un- 
expounded.  As  the  priests  of  the  ancient  oracles 
kept  their  credit,  whatever  the  answer  of  the  god,  so 
these  legal  Pythians  do  not  suffer  in  purse  or  reputa- 
tion as  a  result  of  their  failures  to  interpret  the  law. 

A  lawyer  of  decent  parts  would  have  to  lose  a 
great  many  cases  ere  he  would  be  hopelessly  dis- 
credited in  public  opinion.  The  people  are  well 
taught  how  hard  it  is  to  get  satisfactory  results 
from  the  law. 

Men  still  talk  about  the  superstition  of  this  or 
that  religious  belief — the  greatest  superstition  in 
the  world  to-day,  kneeling  upon  the  chest  of  human- 
ity, throttling  the  intelligence  of  the  race,  ever  de- 
vising new  fetters  and  only  at  the  cost  of  infinite 
struggle  dropping  an  old  one, — is  the  Law! 

In  the  name  of  the  law  every  oppression  has  been 
upheld,  every  superstition  guaranteed  and  defended, 
every  injustice  sanctioned,  every  tyranny  maintained, 
and  every  advance  of  the  race  toward  light  and 
liberty  banned  and  thwarted. 

Men  have  from  time  to  time  risen  against  the  law 
and  wrested  a  measure  of  freedom  for  themselves, 
paying  full  price  of  their  blood  for  the  same.  But, 
such  is  the  force  of  old  superstition,  they  dared  not, 


SAMPLES  OF  HIS   PHILOSOPHY        55 

on  achieving  their  liberty,  abolish  the  law  under 
which  they  had  been  enslaved.  They  changed  it  a 
little,  of  course,  drew  a  tooth  here  and  cut  off  a  claw 
there, — and  then  sat  down  to  enjoy  the  liberty  they 
had  so  dearly  won.  It  never  dawned  upon  them 
that  they  were  leaving  the  seeds  of  a  worse  tyranny 
than  they  had  destroyed — there  in  the  law! 

The  law  is  a  monstrous  foetus  in  the  womb  of 
civilization;  the  many  are  sick  from  it,  but  the 
health  of  the  few  depends  on  the  sickness  of  the 
many — this  has  given  the  law  a  longer  lease  in  the 
past  than  it  will  have  in  the  future. 

The  oppression  of  religions  is  virtually  ended,  the 
tyranny  of  kings  is  falling  before  the  might  of  the 
people,  the  pride  of  race  and  caste  is  brought  low, 
but  a  greater  and  holier  and  more  effectual  con- 
quest must  be  wrought  ere  we  shall  hold  in  security 
the  first  title  of  our  liberties.  I  mean  the  conquest 
of  that  monstrous  superstition  men  call  THE  LAW — 
the  utter  stamping  out  and  pitiless  dispersion  of  it, 
with  all  its  ancient  mummeries,  its  lying  precedents, 
its  decisions  that  never  decide,  its  hopeless  laby- 
rinths and  stern  justice  for  the  poor  offender,  its 
easy  exits  and  mild  punishment  for  the  rich,  its  fetid 
and  furtive  casuistry,  and  all  the  rankness  that  has 
so  long  smelled  to  heaven.  .  .  . 

What  shall  we  put  in  place  of  it?  A  suitable 
adaptation  of  the  Sermon  on  the  Mount,  which,  we 


need  not  forget,  was  given  to  the  world  by  a  Victim 
of  the  law  of  His  time ! 


OUR     SOLITARY    ART 

America  invented  the  Advertising  Man  and  he 
is  said  to  have  been  a  large  factor  in  her  material 
development:  he  is  also  a  chief  cause  of  the  national 
vulgarity. 

Advertising  is  the  one  art  that  we  can  honestly 
claim  to  have  contributed  to  civilization.  A  simple 
definition  of  this  art  would  be:  The  power  of  sell- 
ing or  exploiting  that  which  is  worthless  and  of 
passing  off  mediocrity  as  merit. 

The  application  of  the  Art  of  Advertising  has 
built  up  the  newspapers  and  magazines  of  great  cir- 
culation, vastly  extended  the  patent  medicine  trade 
and  all  that  peculiar  industry  which  is  known  as 
"mail  order  business."  This  is  the  commercial 
phase:  on  the  intellectual  side  it  has  imposed  upon 
and  kept  more  or  less  constantly  before  the  public  a 
set  of  mediocre  persons  supposed  to  represent  the 
talent  of  the  country  along  different  lines. 

This  is  the  common  abuse  of  Advertising:  that 
the  mediocre,  the  bad,  even  the  rotten,  is  foisted  on 
the  people  and  the  standards  of  public  taste  and 
knowledge  are  thereby  confounded. 

Advertising  has  made  notoriety  the  capital  prize 


SAMPLES   OF  HIS   PHILOSOPHY        57 

of  fame  and  success  in  this  country;  its  heaviest  re- 
wards are  for  the  cheek  of  marble  and  the  brow  of 
brass;  it  has  turned  the  classic  goddess  Fortune  into 
a  vulgar  prostitute  whose  favors  are  such  as  to  be 
dreaded  by  the  fastidious  and  the  clean-minded. 

It  may  also  be  the  chief  reason  why  foreign  critics 
deny  us  the  sense  of  real  greatness  or  true  distinc- 
tion. For  as  a  people  we  are  spiritually  and  intel- 
lectually barren,  in  spite  of  magazines  that  circulate 
by  the  million  and  electric  signs  with  letters  sixty 
feet  high.  Numbers  were  never  known  to  confer 
real  greatness.  The  admission  of  the  many  to  voice 
and  rule  constitutes  the  menace  of  democracy  and 
excludes  the  hope  of  such  distinction  as  may  be  ex- 
pected from  a  spiritually  elect  minority.  In  Greece 
the  Athenians  forming  an  aristocratic  republic  be- 
came great  and  immortal,  leaving  to  future  ages  an 
imperishable  legacy  of  achievements  in  all  the  Arts 
of  War  and  Peace.  Who  does  not  believe  that  an 
hour  of  Athens  in  the  time  of  Pericles,  with  her 
unrivaled  poets,  orators,  painters  and  sculptors,  and 
a  populace  capable  of  critically  appreciating  these 
and  their  works, — who  does  not  believe  that  an  hour 
of  the  Olive-crowned  City  of  Genius  were  worth  at 
least  a  decade  of  New  York?  .  .  . 

Fortunate  Athens! — she  never  knew  the  Adver- 
tising Man,  hence  she  escaped  that  vulgarity  which 
chokes  and  kills  off  the  fine  fruits  of  the  spirit. 
Athens,  in  a  word,  possessed  the  secret  of  great 


58        AT  THE   SIGN   OF  THE   VAN 

men — not  the  recipe  for  exploiting  mediocrities 
upon  which  we  pride  ourselves  in  this  country.  This, 
which  may  be  called  the  Art  of  Vulgarity,  we  have 
developed  to  a  rare  perfection  and  an  incredible 
money-making  capacity.  By  it  we  can  sell  anything, 
however  worthless,  and  crown  the  narrow  forehead 
with  the  laurel  of  greatness.  It  is  the  great  leveler, 
the  arch  kill-merit,  the  weasel  that  sucks  the  eggs 
of  genius,  the  secret  foe  of  rare  and  precious  ex- 
cellence. We  Americans  have  made  of  it  a  cult, 
and  in  return  it  has  damned  us  to  a  hopeless  medi- 
ocrity. Great  is  Advertising  I 


O 


VIII 

RIFTS    IN    THE   LUTE 

CCASIONALLY  there  was  a  rift  in  the 
lute  incident  to  the  business  details  of 
publication,  as  I  find  the  Editor  saying : 


The  Papyrus,  in  its  wandering  quest  of  the  Elect, 
meets  with  nearly  every  fashion  of  man  that  God 
has  made,  and  also  with  not  a  few  in  whose  making 
I  should  like  to  believe  that  He  had  no  hand.  Many 
receive  it  with  kindly  welcome,  bidding  it  God- 
speed and  come  again — these  are  the  salt  of  the 
earth,  the  children  of  light,  by  and  through  whom 
the  free  spirit  has  its  being.  Others  reject  it  with 
curses  and  contumely,  writing  long  letters  to  the 
Editor,  full  of  hissing  spite,  which  they  deem  to  be 
righteous  anger;  still  others  request  him  succinctly 
to  go  to  hell !  All  is  part  of  the  game,  my  friends, 
and  I  have  no  complaint  to  make  of  these  persons. 
If  it  gives  peace  to  any  man's  troubled  spirit  to  tell 
me  to  go  to  hell,  why,  I  do  not  begrudge  him  that 
Balm  of  Gilead! — hell  is  the  one  supremely  humor- 
ous idea  that  mankind  has  evolved.  Besides,  to 

39 


60        AT  THE   SIGN   OF   THE   VAN 

send  a  poor,  struggling  publisher  to  hell  is  to  make 
about  the  worst  abuse  of  pleonasm — I  think  that's 
the  figure  of  speech — of  which  the  human  mind  is 
capable. 

Great  is  Allah  who  has  permitted  such  diversity 
among  men  and  yet  suffers  the  poor  publisher  to 
eat  a  crust  in  the  hollow  of  His  mighty  hand ! 

The  getting  out  of  a  "magazine  of  individuality" 
on  a  fixed  date  every  month  is  not  purely  nor  solely 
a  matter  of  literary  inspiration,  as  one  may  derive 
from  the  following  bit  of  petulance : 

A  man  wants  to  know  why  I  do  not  bring 
out  The  Papyrus  on  time,  "like  the  other  maga- 
zines." Because,  kind  Sir,  this  is  not  an  "other 
magazine,"  and  it  is  not  gotten  out  by  machine 
methods  for  the  benefit  of  the  waste-paper  industry. 
The  Papyrus  is  published  twelve  times  a  year,  as 
the  law  requires,  and  whether  it  be  two  or  three 
weeks  behind  the  date  printed  on  the  cover  really 
makes  no  difference — so  long  as  we  put  the  right 
kind  of  soul  stuff  into  it.  I  do  not  believe  a  man 
could  pray  well  if  he  had  only  a  few  minutes  to 
catch  a  train — you  cannot  hurry  the  soul — and  in 
the  bringing  out  of  this  little  magazine  we  both 
labor  and  pray. 

For  to  us  the  making  and  sending  forth  of  each 
number  of  The  Papyrus  are  events  fraught  with 


RIFTS    IN    THE    LUTE  61 

hope  and  joy,  with  fear  and  anxiety — as  every  true 
birth  should  be.  Something  of  my  life,  I  must  be- 
lieve, passes  into  each  number,  something  of  good 
and  bad;  and,  when  the  little  messenger  goes  forth 
at  last,  I  would  often  wish  to  recall  it  and  change 
many  a  printed  word. 

Often,  too,  I  feel  as  if  we  were  saying  a  last  fare- 
well to  it — as  if  we  should  never  send  it  forth  again. 
But  this  fear,  which  haunts  us  about  everything  we 
greatly  love,  stays  never  long  at  a  time — and  soon 
we  are  at  the  old  task,  forgetting  the  last  number 
and  looking  only  to  the  next.  And  so  we  hope  to 
go  on  and  on  until  indeed  there  shall  be  no  next, 
and  Finis  shall  be  written  by  another  hand  than 
mine. 

The  following  also  exhibits  the  sensitive  editorial 
mind  under  censure : 

A  good  fellow  and  an  honest  writes  to  call  me 
down  for  some  opinions  of  mine,  lately  expressed  in 
this  magazine,  which  did  not  please  him.  Oh, 
fiddle-de-dee!  Let's  mix  it  up,  if  we  must,  about 
something  worth  while.  What's  an  opinion,  any- 
way? Does  my  vexed  friend  really  know?  Do  I 
know  myself — oh,  humility!  I  tell  him  now  that 
when  I  am  perfectly  sane  (which  occurs  only  under 
certain  conditions  of  wind  and  weather)  I  don't  care 
a  dam  for  my  opinions  and  could  not  be  driven  to 


62        AT   THE   SIGN   OF   THE   VAN 

fight  for  them.  It  is  only  when  I  am  mad  and  the 
wind  nor'-nor'east  that  my  opinions  strike  into  me, 
as  it  were,  and  seem  to  me  necessary  to  the  happi- 
ness and  enlightenment  of  the  world. 

While  the  fit  lasts  I  take  my  opinions  very  seri- 
ously and  labor  hard  to  pass  them  on  to  others ;  not, 
if  I  know  myself,  as  a  matter  of  vanity,  but  simply 
that  other  persons  may  be  benefited  by  partaking  of 
the  immense  wisdom  and  knowledge  which  I  do  not 
care  to  monopolize.  I  am  even  eager  to  do  battle 
for  my  opinions  and  make  myself  quite  wretched 
should  they  fail  of  a  candid  hearing.  And  it  is 
likely  enough  that  in  my  fiery,  foolish  zeal  I  may 
unwittingly  cause  pain  to  some  tender  hearts — for 
which  I  now  and  at  all  times  ask  forgiveness.  But 
presently  the  wind  shifts  'round  to  another  corner 
of  the  compass,  and  I  am  a  sane,  good-humored 
man  again,  laughing  cheerfully  at  my  own  and 
others'  opinions. 

Let  me  tell  my  friend  another  thing.  Most  of 
us  inherit  our  opinions.  I  inherited  mine,  and  they 
were  of  the  sort  that  are  branded  into  the  soul  by 
old,  unhappy,  far-off  memories  of  persecution  en- 
dured for  their  sake ;  committed  as  a  sacred  heritage 
of  race  and  blood;  confirmed  by  voices  that  plead 
the  more  potently  across  the  silence  of  death;  and 
finally  stamped  by  a  course  of  training  that  picked 
them  out  in  letters  of  fire. 

Well,  I  carried  these  opinions  for  the  better  part 


RIFTS    IN   THE    LUTE  63 

of  my  life,  the  joyous  and  hopeful  part,  and  then  I 
threw  them  away — perhaps  to  my  loss  and  sorrow, 
for  in  these  matters  my  heart  is  often  a  rebel  against 
my  head. 

But  let  that  pass.  This  little  confession  proves 
at  least  that  I  know  what  it  costs  to  keep — and  lose 
— opinions,  and  I  could  be  quite  logically  mad  on 
the  subject  were  the  wind  in  the  wrong  direction. 
It  happens,  however,  to  be  blowing  just  right  for 
sanity,  and  so  I  tell  my  friend  that  he  cannot  have 
a  row  with  me,  no  matter  how  he  may  count  my 
buttons,  or  tread  on  the  tail  of  my  coat,  or  jeer  at 
my  unworthiness  to  spring  from  the  fighting  race. 
There  is  nothing  to  quarrel  about,  for  I  haven't  an 
opinion  in  the  world  which  I  would  defend  against 
him  or  any  other  man — at  this  moment  and  in  my 
present  humor. 

Except,  perhaps,  that  I  ought  to  be  privileged  to 
be  mad  when  the  wind  is  setting  nor'-nor'east. 

Dante  tells  of  a  special  hell  provided  for  those 
wretched  souls  who  mourned  and  repined  in  the 
sunlight  of  this  living  world.  The  passage  is  one 
of  the  most  memorable  in  the  Divine  Comedy,  for 
the  lesson  it  teaches  is  charged  with  a  truth  that 
smites  all  men. 

Who  of  us  has  not  mourned  in  the  sun,  conjuring 
from  his  darkened  soul  a  cloud  to  veil  that  uni- 
versal source  of  life  and  light?  Unhappy  the  man 


64        AT   THE   SIGN   OF   THE   VAN 

who  so  curtails  his  brief  span,  for,  looking  back  with 
wiser  vision,  he  sees  that  such  hours  and  days  are 
to  be  substracted  from  the  sum  of  life.  Short  as 
was  his  allotted  time,  he  has  by  vain  grieving  made 
it  less,  and  the  precious  days  and  hours  so  wasted 
are  gone  forever. 

Poor  fool,  how  has  he  cheated  himself  at  the 
banquet,  still  deferring  the  moment  when  he  should 
eat  and  enjoy!  Now  mayhap  he  is  admonished 
that  the  end  is  not  far,  and  he  must  depart  as  one 
who  has  failed  of  his  inheritance — that  portion  of 
glad  life  which  is  the  right  of  all  men  under  the 
sun.  .  .  . 

For  a  week  or  more  I  had  chewed  the  cud  of 
bitterness,  nor  did  I  mark  once  if  the  blessed  sun 
shone  in  the  world  outside  my  own  gloomy  soul. 
My  peace  was  broken.  The  spirit  that  calls  to 
joyous  work  lay  as  if  dead  and  silent  in  my  breast. 
About  it  twined  and  crawled  the  tiny  serpents  of 
envy,  and  mortification,  and  wounded  pride,  and 
that  veiled  hatred  which  gives  itself  another  name. 
For  I  had  foolishly  opened  my  heart  and  certain 
ones  had  sent  these  to  comfort  me !  Now  the  ser- 
pent brood,  in  full  possession,  stung  and  tortured 
me  incessantly,  biting  their  tails,  hissing, — so  that 
I  feared  other  ears  than  mine  would  hear  them, — 
and  poisoning  my  sweet  blood  with  their  black 
venom. 

Yes,  this  fearful  possession  lasted  some  days,  dur- 


RIFTS    IN    THE    LUTE  65 

ing  which  I  tasted  every  agony  that  Hell  can  inflict, 
— and  then,  and  then,  a  beautiful  morning  came 
when  I  was  suddenly  freed  from  the  curse — freed, 
as  I  now  believe,  forever!  Worn  out  with  long 
torture  and  suffering,  I  had  got  up  early  to  see  the 
sun  rise.  The  sweet  morning  air  whispered  to  me 
of  healing.  The  serpents  were  strangely  languid 
in  my  breast — did  they  know,  did  they  know  that 
their  possession  of  me  was  about  to  end?  I  cannot 
say,  but  this  I  know  that,  climbing  to  the  top  of  a 
green  hill,  I  faced  the  orient  sun  and  opened  my 
heart  to  his  powerful,  searching  beams.  Oh,  the 
blessedness  of  that  moment  when  my  breast  was 
purged  of  the  serpent  brood!  Oh,  the  joy  of  peace 
and  self-content  recovered!  A  minute's  exposure 
to  the  sun  had  worked  the  miracle, — and  now  my 
blood  was  coursing  joyously,  my  pulse  bounding  to 
the  old  tune  of  hope  and  action,  the  whole  machine 
of  me  again  in  order.  .  .  . 

Take  the  sun-cure  for  your  troubles! 

Property!  Money! — I  am  thirty-eight  years  old 
and  I  have  but  lately  found  time  to  worry  about 
these  things.  Heretofore,  I  have  deemed  myself 
rich  enough  in  a  book,  or  in  a  companion  to  my 
liking,  or  in  the  hope  (not  yet  fulfilled)  that  I 
would  some  day  write  a  good  poem,  or  in  my  heart 
of  youth  that  beat  responsive  to  the  pulse  of  some 
heroic  action  in  the  world.  Like  Hamlet,  I  ate  the 


66        AT  THE   SIGN   OF  THE   VAN 

air  promise-crammed — it  was  enough  to  live,  to  live, 
to  live  !  But  now  I  am  conscious  of  a  stirring  within 
me  of  that  lower  self  to  which  mankind  owes  the 
institution  of  property.  As  I  draw  near  the  octavum 
lustrum  of  Horace,  that  fatal  term  which  separates 
a  man  forever  from  the  dreams  of  youth,  I  'gin  to 
feel  that  it  would  do  me  no  harm  to  get  hold  of  a 
little  of  the  Stuff.  Being  a  poet  by  intention,  if  not 
performance,  I  catch  myself  often  wishing  for  a 
very  modest  version  of  the  Sabine  farm.  Oh,  I 
should  be  content  with  less  than  the  hoc  erat  in  votis 
of  my  darling  poet.  A  little  house, — and  enough 
to  eat,  with  something  to  wear,  for  the  kiddies;  and 
the  feeling  that  I  have  a  quiet  corner  for  my  book 
and  my  task,  where  no  man  can  disturb  me;  and 
the  assurance  that  when  I  say  I  own  myself,  I  am 
not  a  liar  in  the  secret  court  of  conscience, — that  is 
all.  Yet  modestly  as  I  phrase  my  desire,  I  know, 
alas !  that  it  is  still  the  dream  which  vexes  the  hearts 
of  all  men — independence! 

This  was  written  ten  years  ago.  I  am  older, 
sadder,  wiser  (perhaps),  but  no  richer.  Allah  be 
praised ! — I  still  have  my  dream. 


IX 

A     BLANK 

IN  the  Winter  of  1904  the  Editor  seems  to  have 
varied  his  exciting  intellectual  occupations  by 
getting  himself  laid  up  in  a  hospital  for  some 
seven  or  eight  weeks.  Hence  the  following  ex- 
planation: 

The  two  back  numbers  of  The  Papyrus  most 
anxiously  and  persistently  sought  by  collectors  are 
those  of  April  and  May  (1904).  The  hunt  never 
ceases,  but  rather  seems  to  take  on  fresh  zest  as 
time  goes  by.  Not  a  day  passes  but  I  get  one  or 
more  requests  for  these  numbers;  some  persons  ask- 
ing are  polite,  but  others  strain  the  amenities  in 
their  peremptory  desire  to  be  satisfied.  To  one  and 
all,  reader  and  collector,  subscriber  and  casual  in- 
quirer, the  polite  and  the  peremptory,  I  have  to 
make  the  same  answer — these  numbers  are  not  to 
be  had. 

Naturally  I  feel  the  force  of  the  compliment  im- 
plied, for  no  reader  knows  as  well  as  I  how  good 
these  particular  issues  were — indeed  I  may  say  they 
were  the  only  ones  which  have  not  disappointed  me 

67, 


68        AT   THE   SIGN   OF  THE   VAN 

in  one  respect  or  another.  Though  you  may  not 
think  it,  I  am  a  harsh  critic  of  my  own  work  and 
judge  myself  as  severely  as  another — always,  of 
course,  with  the  saving  clause  insinuated  by  the 
diplomatic  Ego. 

But  the  numbers  of  The  Papyrus  for  April  and 
May  (1904)  were — I  will  maintain  it  against  the 
world — absolutely  without  fault.  I  planned  them 
out,  through  long  wakeful  nights,  with  the  most 
scrupulous  care.  I  wrote  all  the  matter  myself, 
both  prose  and  poetry,  and  there  can  be  no  doubt 
as  to  its  quality — it  was  far  superior  to  anything  I 
have  ever  read.  Especially  the  poetry,  which,  being 
composed  only  in  the  hours  after  midnight,  had  an 
air  of  detachment,  of  isolation,  of  intensity,  that 
fascinated  even  myself.  I  will  admit  it  was  not 
cheerful,  but  then,  at  the  time  I  wrote  or  composed 
it,  I  was  in  no  mood  for  a  song  and  dance. 

Another  glorified  circumstance  about  these  two 
numbers  was  that,  though  the  writing  was  so  ex- 
cellent, it  really  cost  me  very  little  trouble.  True, 
I  was  much  awake  and  the  work  was  all  done  o* 
nights — white  nights  indeed  they  were — but  I  in- 
cline to  the  belief  that  I  would  not  have  slept  greatly 
in  any  event.  Remains  the  recollection  of  that 
extra-human  facility  of  composition,  that  grandiose 
power  of  thought  and  concentration,  to  plague  me 
since  for  many  a  dull  and  fruitless  hour. 

But  I  am  to  tell  the  whole  truth,  in  deference  to 


A    BLANK  69 

the  anxious  tribe  of  collectors  and  also  the  Librarian 
of  Congress.  These  admirable  numbers  of  The 
Papyrus  for  April  and  May  (1904)  were  never 
published — do  you  hear? — never  published!  They 
are  rare,  oh  very  rare,  for  they  never  had  an  exist- 
ence, save  in  the  dreams  of  a  sick  man;  no  type  or 
proof  of  them  was  ever  set  or  read,  save  that  which 
delirium  fancied  on  the  white  wall  of  the  hospital. 
But  I  do  not  blame  the  collector  (who  will  still 
pursue  me  even  after  this  explanation),  for  at  times 
I  am  not  myself  strictly  decided  and  clear  as  to  the 
fact.  And  then, — and  then, — there  stands  always 
the  assurance  that  I  have  never  yet  gotten  out  an 
issue  of  The  Papyrus  which  could  for  a  moment 
compare  with  the  missing  numbers  for  April  and 
May  (1904). 


HEGIRA 

AT  home,  Somerville,  New  Jersey,   Septem- 
ber, nineteen  hundred  and  four.     By  the 
grace  of  God  and   (also)    forty-five  hard 
Plunks  paid  to  one  William  Gupps,  honest  express- 
man; besides  divers  other  bills  and  charges  which 
prove  that  the  thing  might  be  done  for  less  money, 
if  you  had  to  do  it  oftener. 

I  have  just  counted  the  Coop  and  they  are  all 
here,  safe  and  sound.  By  kind  permission  of  Mr. 
Gupps — an  obliging  man,  Gupps,  though  he  sticks 
to  his  Price — the  eldest  boy  rode  all  the  way  with  the 
load,  starting  at  the  ghostly  hour  of  two  in  the  morn- 
ing (oh,  romance!)  and  arriving  at  five  the  next 
afternoon;  while  his  junior,  the  Red,  stayed  behind 
to  give  us  the  benefit  of  his  joyous  activity — (we 
lost  him  once  on  the  Elevated  and  again  at  the  Jer- 
sey Ferry,  his  mother  having  a  Panic  each  time,  but 
he  never  ceased  to  wear  his  cap  triumphantly  on 
three  hairs).  On  the  whole,  the  family  voted  the 
moving  a  Success — the  eldest  girl  called  it  a  Glori- 
ous Adventure — and  they  would  like  to  do  it  at 

70 


HEGIRA  71 

least  every  other  day.  My  own  feelings  of  enjoy- 
ment were  a  shade  more  restrained:  I  should  say 
about  once  every  fifteen  years. 

As  a  matter  of  history,  I  may  record  that  there 
were  no  Public  Ceremonies  either  of  condolence  or 
rejoicing  on  our  departure  from  Mount  Vernon — 
there  may  have  been  a  kind  of  voiceless  grief  or 
dumb  sorrow,  but  it  was  very  dumb. 

Every  great  man  has  run  away  at  least  once  in 
his  lifetime  and  some  have  done  the  trick  oftener. 
The  world  loves  a  man  who  runs  away, — as  a 
Strategic  Move,  mind  you, — and  makes  as  good 
apologies  for  him  as  did  Falstaff.  If  Horace  had 
not  fled  from  Philippi,  Mahomet  from  Mecca, 
Dante  from  Florence,  Shakespeare  from  Stratford, 
I  doubt  that  we  should  still  be  hearing  so  much 
about  them.  Each  had  good  reasons  for  going, 
but  was  too  wise  to  stop  and  explain  why — let  the 
gossips  have  their  guess! 

I  hope  I  am  too  modest  to  offer  myself  as  a  Con- 
spicuous Exception. 

It  is  also  worthy  of  note  that  Mahomet,  Dante, 
Shakespeare  and  others  of  the  truly  great  left  some 
bandy-legged,  red-haired  men  yelling  Pointed  Per- 
sonal Questions  behind  them — which  remain  unan- 
swered to  this  day.  So  did  I,  perhaps.  No  matter 
— let  them  be  damned!  The  asking  of  such  ques- 
tions in  the  present  is  calumny — that  is  why  the 
great  men  named  did  not  stay  to  answer  them.  In 


72        AT  THE   SIGN   OF  THE   VAN 

the  future,  however,  it  is  criticism  or  biography,  and 
the  race  of  bandy-legged,  red-haired  interrogation- 
ists  is  perpetuated  in  college  chairs. 

But,  to  keep  to  the  personal  instance,  the  fact  is 
that  in  those  towns  suburban  to  New  York  the 
population  is  so  very  fleeting  that  nobody  has  time 
to  keep  tab  on  you.  So,  whether  you  move  in  broad 
day  or  in  the  dark  of  the  moon,  it  really  makes  no 
difference — except,  perhaps,  to  the  Landlord. 

I  like  Mount  Vernon  because  The  Papyrus  was 
born  there — and  also  our  Youngest,  dear  me ! — and 
I  shall  always  keep  a  kind  memory  of  it.  But  there 
and  in  other  towns  too  near  the  Big  City  I  found 
that  I  had  committed  the  unpardonable  sin;  which 
is  to  have  a  Wife  and  Six !  As  I  would  not  deny  and 
could  not  easily  hide  the  Handicap  (which  has  a 
kind  of  tendency  to  Swarm),  there  was  really  noth- 
ing to  do  but  move  on.  And  yet  nothing  is  harder 
in  the  long  run,  for  it  is  quite  extraordinary  how  a 
man's  chattels  dwindle  under  the  careful  handling 
of  the  Moving  Man,  so  that,  by  a  singular  contra- 
diction, the  more  children  a  man  has,  the  less  fur- 
niture— no  doubt  the  Law  of  Compensation  is  at 
work  here  somewhere  if  I  could  make  it  out. 
Finally,  when  I  had  nailed  the  Moving  Record  (our 
trials  had  begun  in  New  York  City),  a  man  from 
Jersey  showed  me  a  way  and  made  me  a  partaker  of 
a  Revelation  which  had  come  to  him  in  the  Night — 
I  had  never  gone  far  enough! 


HEGIRA  73 

Mount  Vernon  is  a  nice  town  and  I  left  a  few 
good  friends  there  whose  kind  wishes  follow  me; 
but  I  have  immortalized  it  as  the  birthplace  of  The 
Papyrus,  and  so  we  are  quits.  We  should  never 
have  parted  had  it  been  twenty-five  miles  farther 
from  the  Great  Babel.  .  . 


XI 

GOD'S   ACRE 

A  SHORT  mile  from  the  home  of  The 
Papyrus,  along  the  broad  turnpike,  lies  a 
fine  old  cemetery,  as  sightly  and  beautiful 
as  God's  Acre  should  be.  It  is  by  religious  de- 
nomination Catholic,  and  the  silent  dwellers  therein 
are  (or  were)  mostly  Irish  and  German  adherents 
of  that  venerable  faith.  There  is  enough  greenery 
to  make  the  place  seem  cool  and  inviting  on  the 
hottest  day  in  Summer.  It  is  well  kept,  as  beseems 
the  prosperous  congregation  that  supports  it,  though 
it  is  by  no  means  what  you  would  call  a  showy 
cemetery.  Rich  and  poor  are  mingled  here  in  death 
as  in  life,  especially  in  the  older  section;  but  a 
decent  care  is  taken  that  they  do  not  discountenance 
or  jostle  one  another.  I  noticed  that  to  this  end, 
evidently,  many  of  the  finer  plots  and  monuments 
are  heavily  railed  in,  and  the  fancy  struck  me  that 
the  ghost  of  a  poor  man  would  need  much  assur- 
ance to  cross  the  enclosure. 

I   have   always  had  a  mild  passion   for  grave- 
yards, perhaps  because  I  come  of  a  race  that  has 

74 


GOD'S    ACRE  75 

ever,  through  its  religious  faith,  been  more  preoc- 
cupied with  death  than  with  life.  The  skepticism  I 
have  picked  up  on  my  way  through  life  has  but 
slightly  affected  my  love  for  the  quiet  homes  of  the 
dead.  Nay,  I  am  not  sure  but  that  it  has  added  a 
poignancy  to  my  passion,  from  the  mournful  fact 
that  I  do  not  always  share  the  fulness  of  that  hope 
which  is  exultantly  sculptured  on  every  tombstone. 
Mind,  I  do  not  say  that  I  reject  that  hope;  only  I 
would  I  were  as  sure  of  it  as  is  the  humblest  tomb- 
stone in  this  old  cemetery. 

Who  indeed  will  deny  that  the  affirmation  of  all 
these  silent  fingers  pointing  up  to  Heaven,  witness- 
ing the  assured  hope  of  those  who  lie  below,  has 
a  solemn  effect  even  upon  the  skeptic  mind,  while 
it  fills  with  a  passionate  conviction  those  already 
prone  to  believe?  A  grave  and  a  cross — these  are 
the  naked  essentials  of  the  Christian  hope:  to  me, 
in  certain  moods,  they  seem  more  eloquent  than  the 
richest  monuments,  and  surely  more  convincing  than 
all  the  theological  promises  in  the  world. 

The  older  the  cemetery  the  better  I  like  it — a 
new-made  grave,  unless  it  be  that  of  a  child  or 
young  person,  as  a  bride  in  her  orange  flowers,  has 
for  me  no  sentimental  interest.  Now  this  cemetery 
is  not  extremely  old  and  there  are  few  century 
plants  among  the  tombstones.  But  fifty  years  is  a 
decent  age  for  a  grave, — not  really  mellow,  to  be 
sure,  yet  I  would  not  pass  it  with  a  careless  eye. 


76        AT  THE   SIGN   OF  THE   VAN 

Seventy-five  is,  of  course,  still  better,  but  a  HUN- 
DRED reaches  out  for  me  clutching  hands  of  ro- 
mance !  There  I  pause  and  long  chew  the  cud  of 
sober  meditation.  .  .  . 

I  notice  that,  save  in  the  case  of  some  well-to-do 
person  leaving  a  goodly  monument  to  proclaim  his 
virtues,  about  five  or  ten  years  marks  the  limit  of 
active  remembrance,  so  far  as  the  condition  of  the 
grave  may  testify.  Many  graves  are,  of  course, 
sooner  forgotten  and  abandoned  to  the  grass  that 
hides,  the  rain  that  effaces.  But,  with  few  excep- 
tions, human  love  and  care  and  memory  cease  to 
show  themselves  by  their  familiar  tokens  after  a 
decade  of  years.  Nothing  endures  in  this  world; 
not  even  the  grief  of  widows.  And  then  it  is  to  be 
said  that  ten  years  is  a  long  time  and  may  well,  in 
the  majority  of  cases,  leave  no  surviving  mourner 
to  tend  the  grave. 

There  are  exceptions,  however.  One  that  pleased 
me  much  was  that  of  a  man  who  died  thirty  years 
ago  in  his  twenty-eighth  year.  His  grave  was  cov- 
ered with  living,  beautiful  flowers,  and  everything 
about  it  attested  the  most  anxious  love,  the  most 
conscientious  and  delicate  care.  An  inscription  on 
the  handsome  tombstone  modestly  attributed  all 
this  to  the  widow.  "She  is  old  now,"  I  thought, 
"and  her  love  has  never  wavered  from  the  hus- 
band of  her  youth  lying  there."  I  took  off  my 


GOD'S    ACRE  77 

hat  and  stood  a  moment  by  that  grave.  There  are 
not,  I  think,  very  many  like  it  in  all  the  world.  .  .  . 

In  the  more  ancient  and  poorer  part  of  the  cem- 
etery there  are,  of  course,  fewer  evidences  of  care 
and  preservation;  the  tombstones  are  mostly  dis- 
colored and  illegible,  leaning  awry  or  quite  fallen 
down;  and  many  graves  have  little  or  nothing  to 
identify  them,  the  wooden  crosses  which  originally 
served  this  purpose  having  long  since  crumbled 
away. 

An  atavistic  feeling  warned  me  of  the  deep  pathos 
of  this,  for  these  were  mostly  the  graves  of  "mine 
own  people,"  dating  back  some  seventy-five  years. 
They  were  laid  there  in  that  confident  hope  of  the 
Resurrection  which  so  strongly  marks  the  religious 
faith  of  the  Irish.  Their  names  were  inscribed  on 
the  plain  wooden  crosses  or  simple  tombstones,  with 
the  legend  of  their  native  parishes  in  Ireland,  etc., 
a  quaint  yet  pleasing  care  that  one  hated  to  see 
annulled  by  the  lapse  of  time  and  neglect.  Obvi- 
ously, nothing  was  omitted  that  might  insure  their 
identification  on  the  Last  Day,  and  perhaps  few  of 
them  expected  to  wait  long  for  it.  Yet  here  were 
names  and  all  lost,  and  in  no  long  time  this  part  of 
the  cemetery  will  be  perforce  abandoned  and  the 
bones  of  these  faithful  Irish  left  in  common  clay. 
Is  not  this  a  dereliction  at  which  the  heart 
sickens?  .  .  . 

Well,  I  who  have  loved  to  walk  and  muse  in 


78        AT  THE   SIGN   OF   THE   VAN 

cemeteries  would  not  of  my  good  will  lie  in  one, 
to  meet  perhaps  the  untoward  fate  of  my  poor 
countrymen  told  above.  I  have  a  horror  of  lying 
in  the  earth,  of  the  slow  processes  of  disintegration ; 
and,  being  of  a  goodly  substance,  I  fain  would  cheat 
the  worm  that  profits  so  richly  from  his  politic  alli- 
ance with  the  church.  In  plainer  terms,  when  I 
shall  have  no  further  use  for  my  body  I  wish  it  to 
be  given  to  the  cleansing  fire;  and  I  charge  any 
friend  of  mine  whose  eye  may  chance  on  this  to 
make  protest  if  any  other  disposition  be  attempted 
(dead  men  are  often  fooled!). 


XII 

A     RESURRECTION 

IN  August  of  last  year  the  kind  little  tutelary 
gods  which  up  to  that  time  had  watched  over 
The  Papyrus,  went  off  duty  or  slept  too  long 
at  their  post,  and  I  was  forced  to  suspend. 

I  could  not  then  console  myself  with  any  good 
hope  that  I  should  at  some  future  day  be  in  a  posi- 
tion to  retrieve  the  misfortune,  and  to  this  effect  I 
notified  my  friends  and  subscribers.  I  am  bound 
to  say  that  their  sympathy  and  encouragement,  ex- 
pressed in  very  many  letters,  did  for  a  time  make 
up  to  me  the  loss  of  my  dear  little  companion — the 
dearer,  perhaps,  for  the  anxieties  it  had  caused  me. 
I  was  thus,  in  a  way,  privileged  to  enjoy  the  luxury 
of  reading  my  own  obituary — a  luxury  as  rare  as  it 
is  deeply  savorous  and  sweet.  I  mingled  my  tears 
with  the  mourners,  knowing  even  better  than  they 
the  virtues  of  the  dear  deceased — had  I  not  kept 
bed  and  board  with  him  these  forty  year?  I  joined, 
too,  in  tender  censure  of  his  faults,  but  loved  him 
the  more  for  them.  And  I  began  to  think  there 
was  nothing  in  the  world  so  entirely  joyous  or  of 

79 


80        AT  THE   SIGN   OF  THE   VAN 

such  a  marrowy  satisfaction  as  the  premature  liter- 
ary funeral  of  oneself. 

In  these  circumstances  (many  will  ask)  was  it 
not  better  to  have  remained  dead?  And  is  it  not 
a  shame  and  a  scandal  to  put  the  mourners  out  of 
countenance  and  to  spoil  the  memory  of  as  pretty 
a  wake  as  ever  was  seen? 

I  feel  the  force  of  these  objections  and  I  am  in 
truth  poignantly  ashamed  of  myself — but  it  is  so 
hard  to  stay  dead! 

And  then,  to  give  other  reasons,  I  do  so  want  to 
have  my  little  say,  and  here  is  the  only  place 
wherein  I  can  say  it.  Being  a  true  literary  man, 
with  the  artistic  conscience  and  a  real  sense  of  style 
— pardon  me,  I  am  only  quoting  the  mourners! — 
the  so-called  standard  magazines  are  not  for  me. 
As  a  worker  in  the  finer  veins  of  literature,  my 
name,  though  as  old  as  my  race,  is  not  attractive 
to  the  snobbery  of  the  period,  faithfully  reflected  in 
our  periodical  press;  yet  it  would  serve  me  well 
enough  were  I  a  writer  of  the  vaudevillian  or  roust- 
about class.  Unfortunately  I  am  in  literary  mat- 
ters of  an  aristocratic  taste  and  temper  (the  mourn- 
ers again!),  while  my  name  carries  perhaps  a  dif- 
ferent significance  to  the  snob  and  the  fool.  I  had 
rather  not  bear  the  risks  and  pains  of  publication, 
which  are  a  quite  unnecessary  handicap  to  the  writ- 
ing game,  but  if  I  do  not  I  shall  be  condemned  to 
silence  and  die  as  to  my  vocation  unfulfilled,  since 


A    RESURRECTION  81 

I  cannot  bring  myself  to  compete  with  the  present- 
day  horde  of  literary  mechanics  on  terms  acceptable 
to  the  "standard"  magazines.  Their  gods  are  not 
my  gods,  their  ideals  not  my  ideals.  Mine  are  the 
elect  and  venerated  names  of  true  literature;  the 
stars  that  shine  in  the  quiet  heaven  of  immortality, 
sending  down  to  us  beams  of  comfort  and  inspira- 
tion, teaching  us  so  much  of  the  secret  of  their  high 
fellowship  as  we  are  worthy  to  learn,  bidding  us 
hold  off  from  the  sordid  struggle  in  which  the 
precious  things  of  the  soul  are  debased  or  lost. 
Theirs  is  the  contemporary  Comus  rout  of  ink- 
and-dollar  made  celebrities,  many-horned  beasts  that 
have  trampled  and  fouled  the  literary  pastures. 

A  great  Frenchman  says  that  one  writes  at  one's 
best  only  for  a  few  people,  the  elect  of  mind  and 
heart — well,  you  know  what  the  mourners  said!  So 
we'll  just  be  nice  and  cozy  and  select,  but  inclusive, 
not  exclusive  or  snobbish;  and  from  time  to  time 
we'll  talk  to  one  another,  with  the  frankness  of  men 
and  women  who  understand,  of  things  real  men  and 
women  are  really  interested  in;  fearing  to  discuss 
nought  that  lies  between  life  and  death. 

With  these  few  indifferently  pointed  remarks,  I 
come  down  from  the  hearse,  smiling,  and  take  my 
place  among  the  joyous  mourners. 


XIII 

A     CHILD     IS     BORN 

THERE  is  a  satisfaction  in  publishing  your 
own  book:  in  certain  ways  it  seems  a 
thing  that  nobody  else  can  do  for  you  so 
well.  But  Allah  has  in  His  wisdom  decreed  that 
neither  the  sweet  nor  the  bitter  shall  be  unqualified 
in  this  world. 

Our  new  book  *  was  delivered  to  us  by  the  binder 
about  November  loth,  and  nearly  the  whole  edition 
had  gone  off  well  before  Christmas.  This  was  a 
success  beyond  my  wildest  hopes,  seeing  that  I  am 
not  a  publisher  in  the  regular  sense,  have  no  access 
to  The  Trade,  and  no  money  to  spend  for  adver- 
tising; being,  in  truth,  only  a  tiny  privateer  tacking 
perilously  along  in  the  wake  of  the  big  craft. 

Allah  has  made  great  and  small,  however,  and 
He  takes  care  of  both,  when  they  are  not  too  un- 
mindful of  themselves. 

The  result  comes  very  far  from  landing  me  with 
the  Six  Best  Sellers,  and  The  Trade  will  sneer  at  it; 
but  all  the  same  I  feel  pretty  good  and  don't  care 

*Palms  of  Papyrus. 

.82 


A    CHILD    IS    BORN  83 

if  I  show  it  Maybe  there  were  not  so  many,  but 
when  I  saw  all  those  blessed  books  stacked  up 
against  three  walls  of  the  attic,  barely  leaving  room 
to  swing  a  cat  in,  I  got  a  firm  and  logical  grasp  of 
the  impossibility  of  ever  getting  rid  of  them.  They 
went,  as  I  have  said,  quite  marvelously,  and  now  I 
wish  we  had  another  edition  to  go  through  the  year 
with.  But  wishing  and  having,  in  the  wise  dispen- 
sation of  Allah,  are  two  very  different  things — the 
holders  of  the  first  edition  need  not  fear  that  their 
copies  will  be  depreciated.  .  .  . 

If  I  were  not  publishing  The  Papyrus,  I  should 
have  sought,  and  perhaps  not  found,  a  regular  pub- 
lisher for  the  book;  but  it  is  rather  more  likely  that, 
without  The  Papyrus,  the  book  would  never  have 
been  written.  The  fact  is  not  greatly  important, 
but  it  may  as  well  be  stated. 

For  literature  per  se  the  typical  American  pub- 
lisher has  not  even  a  rudimentary  instinct  and  does 
not  give  a  tinker's  expletive.  What  he  wants  is 
something  that  promises  a  big  success,  for  reasons 
that  commonly  have  little  or  no  relation  to  liter- 
ature. In  fact,  the  book  publisher  in  this  country 
is  only  a  variant  of  the  journalist;  their  methods  and 
morals  are  hardly  to  be  distinguished;  neither  will 
waste  a  fraction  of  a  second  on  anything  that  does 
not  promise  a  money  success.  Notoriety  is  recog- 
nized and  demanded  as  the  first  essential  in  an 
author,  and  by  the  measure  of  his  notoriety  he  is 


84        AT  THE   SIGN   OF   THE   VAN 

paid  rather  than  by  any  literary  expectation  deriv- 
able from  his  work.  So  a  great  part  of  our  so- 
called  literature  is  conditioned  by  a  kind  of  journal- 
ism that  is  chiefly  murder  and  scream,  bears  the 
same  marks  of  exaggeration,  impudence,  incompe- 
tence and  haste — and  dies  as  soon. 

On  the  other  hand  we  have  a  small,  select  and 
rich  coterie  of  publishers,  who  maintain  what  they 
are  pleased  to  call  the  conservative  traditions  of  the 
trade.  These  bookmen,  enriched  by  profitable,  long- 
standing copyrights,  and  by  the  patronage  of  the 
incurious,  the  mediocre  and  the  respectable,  distrust 
anything  that  is  not  dull,  shudder  at  sight  or  sound 
of  a  new  name,  and,  so  far  as  they  may,  go  on  pro- 
ducing feeble  copies  of  the  sort  of  literature  with 
which  their  houses  have  always  been  identified. 
True  literature — the  rare  and  beautiful  and  vital 
reality — has  as  little  to  hope  from  these  gentry, 
exuding  smugness  and  self-satisfaction  at  every  pore, 
as  from  the  tomtom  beaters  and  sensation  mongers 
already  described.  "A  plague  o'  both  your 
houses!"  .  .  . 

Pardon  the  digression.  There  is  pain  as  well  as 
pleasure  and  loss  as  well  as  profit  in  being  your  own 
publisher,  but  now  that  the  books  are  mostly  gone,  I 
can  only  dwell  on  the  credit  side  of  the  account.  A 
book — a  real  book — is  the  child  of  your  soul;  you 
hate  to  intrust  it  to  other  and  less  careful  hands;  to 
take  Barabbas's  ten  per  cent,  while  he  does  with 


A    CHILD    IS    BORN  85 

your  darling  according  to  his  own  sweet  will ;  not  to 
be  a  witness  of  or  a  sharer  in  the  interesting  trans- 
action by  which  each  copy  of  your  heart's  fulfilment 
passes  out  into  the  world.  Oh,  you  would  prefer 
not  to  bother  with  the  business  end,  but  as  things 
are,  it's  really  no  hardship  to  take  the  money.  An 
alien  publisher  knows  nothing  of  that  exquisite  emo- 
tion induced  by  opening  a  letter  with  a  cheque  in  it — 
or,  at  least,  knows  only  the  coarser,  commercial 
phase  of  it;  I'm  not  sure  that  mere  authorship  offers 
a  delight  to  match  this.  To  commit  so  rare  a  pleas- 
ure, such  a  labor  of  love,  to  a  foreign  hand  is  like 
trusting  one's  "proofs"  to  somebody  who  cannot 
spell.  Or  like  yielding  up  something  akin  to  that 
privilege  which  mediaeval  lords  enjoyed,  of  hand- 
selling the  brides  of  their  vassals.  Retro,  Barab- 
bas! — thou  shalt  preempt  no  joy  of  mine;  it 
likes  me  well  to  do  my  own  handselling. 

Another  point.  In  your  dual  character  of  author- 
publisher  you  naturally  receive  letters  that  would  not 
fall  to  you  as  publisher  or  author  singly.  Most  of 
them  are  agreeable,  many  of  them  quite  above  your 
deserts  (as  you  confess  to  yourself  in  pleased  humil- 
ity of  spirit),  but  there  are  enough  of  the  other 
kind  to  save  you  from  falling  into  inordinate  con- 
ceit. Oh,  quite  enough !  Allah  has  shrewdly  pro- 
vided for  that — and  you  give  thanks  that  people  are 
of  such  various  minds,  for  in  this  is  the  poor  author's 
salvation.  In  truth  his  lot  is  not  unlike  that  of  a 


86        AT  THE   SIGN   OF   THE   VAN 

wounded  gladiator  whom  the  cruel  "thumbs  down" 
of  the  galleries  sentenced  to  death  or  the  contrary 
sign  respited  to  life.  Not  a  few  kindly  persons  take 
pains  to  show  you  how  they  are  holding  their 
pollices.  Stern  Romans  they!  .  .  . 

However,  we  have  to  take  our  portion  without 
flinching.  There  are  some  people,  we  confess  with 
a  wince,  by  whose  leave  we  should  not  have  bite  or 
sup  in  this  hard  world;  yet  even  they  serve  us  after 
a  fashion.  For  these  bitter  experiences  put  knowl- 
edge of  human  nature  into  our  heads,  if  not  money 
in  our  purse.  What  you  have  chiefly  to  be  grateful 
for  is  the  wholesome  discovery  that  there  is  vastly 
more  kindness  in  the  world — even  the  little  world 
that  is  open  to  you — than  you  had  been  wont  to 
believe;  and  perhaps  you  will  admit  (unless  you  be 
an  ass)  that  such  kindness  is  the  more  wonderful 
since  you  are  the  object  of  it. 

This  experience  alone  would  justify  the  cost  and 
trouble  and  anxiety  of  publishing  your  own  book, 
for  has  it  not  enabled  you  to  read  a  little  in  the 
great  Book  of  the  Heart?  .  .  . 

Dear  friends, — best  friends  of  all,  whom  I  shall 
never  see, — I  wanted  to  write  my  thanks  to  each  and 
every  one  of  you,  but  other  tasks  interfered  and 
time  failed  me.  Be  sure  I  read  your  letters, — aye, 
every  word  of  them — letters  from  brave  and  kindly 
men,  from  sweet-hearted  women,  from  white-souled 


A    CHILD    IS    BORN  87 

girls,  from  the  sacred  Theban  band  of  youth.  Yes, 
I  read  them  all,  and  sometimes  my  tears  fell  in  the 
reading  .  .  .  happy  tears  over  the  love  and  sym- 
pathy that  have  so  wonderfully  sprung  up  between 
us.  Am  I  wrong  to  confess  so  much?  O  dear 
friends,  whom  I  shall  never  see,  it  is  you  alone  whom 
I  do  see  when  a  little  vision  is  granted  unto  me  .  .  . 
it  is  you  alone  by  whose  grace  I  am  enabled  at  inter- 
vals too  long  to  rise  unto  the  higher  thought  .  .  . 
it  is  you  alone  whose  praise  I  crave,  whose  blame  I 
fear,  and  for  whom  I  would  say  my  word. 


XIV 

THE     RETURN 

MANY  are  the  idiosyncrasies  of  writing 
folk.  Balzac  could  write  only  at  night 
and  in  a  monk's  dress.  Tom  Moore 
penned  his  Melodies  in  kid  gloves.  Sheridan  wrote 
in  a  room  brilliantly  lighted  with  candles  and  re- 
warded every  happy  thought  with  a  glass  of  wine. 
There  are  fastidious  authors  to  whom  the  scent  of 
flowers  is  necessary.  A  famous  French  woman  of 
the  eighteenth  century  preferred  as  a  literary  ex- 
citant the  pungent  odor  of  the  stable.  Mr.  Richard 
Harding  Davis  honors  himself  and  his  inspiration 
by  writing  in  full  evening  dress.  Colonel  Roosevelt, 
needless  to  say,  composes  in  khaki  and  a  pith  hel- 
met. For  myself,  I  can't  break  with  the  habit  of 
years,  not  to  speak  of  the  Literary  Tradition;  and 
so  I  go  on  writing  the  Good  Stuff  in  an  Attic — I 
doubt  if  it  would  come  for  me  elsewhere.  Environ- 
ment gets  to  be  fixed  and  necessary,  like  the  walls 
of  a  man's  brain. 

The  Attic  of  our  new  home  in  Mount  Vernon  be- 
ing, like  Gaul,  divided  into  three  parts,  gives  the  Red 

88 


THE    RETURN  89 

(aged  fifteen)  a  fine  bedroom  (liberally  adorned 
with  portraits  of  heroes  in  Fistiana),  and  me  a  com- 
fortable study,  with  perhaps  the  smallest  storeroom 
in  the  world  remaining  for  good  measure.  Not  any 
great  amount  of  space,  to  be  sure,  but  I  have  in  my 
end  three  bookcases,  a  desk,  a  table  and  two  chairs 
— and  enough  room  left  to  put  on  my  hat,  if  not  to 
hang  the  proverbial  kitten. 

I  am  here  high  enough  from  the  street  to  gain  a 
reasonable  degree  of  quiet  and  isolation — not  abso- 
lute, however,  for  the  Two  Youngest  occasionally 
"start  something"  and  I  may  be  called  down  any 
moment  to  loosen  a  strangle-hold.  But,  take  it  for 
all  in  all,  I  like  it — and  I  don't  know  that  a  man 
can  ask  for  anything  better  in  this  world  than  a  quiet 
corner  for  his  Book  and  his  Task  and  his  Dream. 

No  pictures  here  to  speak  of,  because  you  see 
the  roof  is  gabled  and  the  bookshelves  take  the 
straight  walls.  A  likeness  maybe  of  some  dear 
friend  who  believes  in  you  far  more  than  you  do 
yourself — what  man  is  unblessed  with  such,  or  can 
work  without  the  silent  inspiration  of  a  face  be- 
loved? 

Oh,  and  the  tiny  Buddhist  monk  on  my  desk, 
which  you  could  hide  in  your  palm.  I  knew  you 
would  ask  about  that  magot,  for  of  course  you  no- 
ticed the  odor  of  the  little  incense  pastilles  we  burn 
for  him*  each  day.  He  has  a  history,  that  petit 
bonhomme,  who  looks  as  if  he  were  sorely  vexexl 


9o        AT  THE   SIGN   OF  THE   VAN 

with  the  folly  of  mankind.  So  he  well  may  be,  for 
he  has  been  four  times  around  the  world  and  never 
bores  us  about  it.  A  lady  whose  thoughts  are  all 
kindness  sent  him  to  me  as  a  mascot,  from  her  far- 
off  home  in  California.  He  arrived  just  at  a  time 
when  there  was  really  nothing  for  him  to  do — I  had 
been  obliged  to  suspend  Papyrus!  Then  I  was  for 
sending  him  back,  but  the  lady  said,  "No,  if  you 
wish  to  revive  Papyrus,  keep  him.  You  will  see." 
I  did  keep  him,  and — well,  I'm  not  superstitious, 
but  here  we  are  in  the  Attic  together,  he  wearing  a 
slightly  patronizing,  though  always  vexed,  expres- 
sion, as  who  should  say:  "Yes,  you're  at  it  again 
and  I've  helped  you — but,  between  us  two  now — 
honest! — is  it  really  worth  while?  .  .  . 

I  am  living  in  Mount  Vernon  again  after  an 
absence  of  over  seven  years  and  a  somewhat 
thorough  trial  of  New  Jersey.  This  is  perhaps  the 
most  notable  compliment  ever  paid  the  town,  but 
nobody  seems  to  be  making  a  fuss  about  it! 

Man  that  is  born  of  woman  is  of  few  days  any- 
where, the  Good  Book  tells  us.  And  mighty  fleet- 
ing are  his  generations  in  the  towns  suburban  to 
New  York. 

Papyrus  was  born  here  in  July,  1903 — a  fact  that 
Mount  Vernon  will  be  prouder  of  in  the  future  than 
it  is  now  (why  shouldn't  I  be  candid  about  it?). 
I  was  fairly  well  acquainted  before  I  left — without 


THE    RETURN  91 

undue  haste  or  idle  ceremony — a  year  or  so  later. 
But  would  you  believe  it? — on  my  return  I  found 
hardly  a  soul  that  knew  and  few  that  remembered 
me. 

The  feeling  of  artistic  nervousness  or  stage  fright 
that  I  got  up  for  my  first  walk  down  the  little  main 
street,  expecting  every  moment  to  be  slapped  on  the 
back  by  old  acquaintances  and  to  have  the  glad 
hand  thrust  on  me  right  and  left,  was  quite  thrown 
away.  Nobody  took  any  liberties.  I  was  pained 
and  yet  relieved  somehow. 

I  strolled  over  to  the  Post  Office,  across  the  rail- 
road tracks,  where  Papyrus  had  been  mailed  to  a 
large  and  expectant  world  during  more  than  a  year. 
"Bob"  Mason,  the  perpetual  deputy  postmaster, 
offered  me  the  first  crumb  of  comfort.  "Why,  yes," 
he  said,  screwing  up  one  eye  in  Hawkshaw  fashion, 
"I  remember  that  little  dinky  paper  because  they 
had  a  hell  of  a  time  getting  the  Second  Class. 
Heard  it  fell  down  afterward  in  Jersey.  Say,  if 
you  can't  make  a  thing  go  in  little  old  New  York 
State !" 

I  turned  away  without  betraying  myself.  On  the 
corner  I  ran  into  Judge  Gay,  one  of  our  earliest  and 
kindest  friends.  He  shook  both  my  hands  with  such 
uncommon  heartiness  that  I  suppose  I  looked  my 
surprise.  He  noticed  it  and  said,  "I  really  can't  help 
it,  dear  old  boy,  it  is  SUCH  a  joy  to  see  you  after;— 


92        AT  THE   SIGN   OF   THE   VAN 

why,  hang  it,  you  know  the  Fra  or  somebody  said 
that  you  were  drowned  in  the  Irish  Sea  !"  .  .  . 

The  Mayor's  office  is  one  of  the  few  spots  in 
Mount  Vernon  that  don't  seem  to  change,  worth 
speaking  of.  When  I  first  came  here,  Ed.  Fisk  was 
Mayor,  and  when  I  left  Ed.  Brush  was  holding 
down  the  honor.  Now  it's  Fisk  again,  rotation 
like.  Well,  they're  both  good  friends  of  mine  and 
faithful  Papyrites.  I  hope  they'll  keep  on  passing 
the  ball  to  each  other.  I  have  no  third  choice. 

Dan  Lewis,  the  printer,  was  another  man  I  called 
on,  having  known  him  pretty  well  in  the  old  days. 
Dan  was  a  little  slow  at  first — I  suspect,  however, 
that  he  was  only  waiting  for  me  to  give  him  a  lead. 
I  did.  Then  he  broke  out:  "So  you've  come  back 
to  Mount  Vernon?  Well,  here's  a  wonder.  I'd 
have  called  you  quicker,  but  you  used  to  wear  your 
hair  longer,  eh?  Cosmic  fleece  you  used  to  call  it — 
say,  you  did  have  some  queer  dope  all  right.  And 
you've  dropped  the  what-ye-call-it  ?  Always  knew 
you  would  when  you  got  sense  and  cashed  in  your 
experience.  Nothing  to  it,  my  boy,  unless  you've 
got  a  Female  Baseball  Team  or  a  Leather  Check 
community  or  something  like  that  for  a  sideline, 
same  as  the  fellow  who  carried  the  something  to 
Gomez." 

And  the  good  old  man  rattled  on.  I  parted  with 
Mr.  Lewis  more  in  sorrow  than  in  anger — how  fool- 
ish it  is  to  expect  everyone  to  understand  us  I  .  .  . 


THE    RETURN  93 

Walking  then  toward  my  new  home,  strong  and 
happy  and  purposeful,  in  the  bright  sunshine,  I  sud- 
denly caught  sight  of  a  building  I  knew  but  too  well, 
and  stopped  short  to  put  back  a  crowd  of  painful 
memories.  It  was  the  hospital  where  I  had  passed 
nine  weeks  in  the  Spring  of  1904  and  where  the 
worries  of  publication,  with  all  other  cares  and 
troubles,  were  very  nearly  lifted  from  me  forever. 
I  tried  to  pick  out  the  window  of  my  little  room 
where  I  had  often  watched  for  daylight;  where  in 
my  sick  dreams  I  composed  and  edited,  aye  and 
published,  the  two  MOST  extraordinary  numbers  of 
this  magazine  (I  wish  people  would  stop  asking  for 
them).  I  saw  the  small  grassy  square  with  the 
soldiers'  monument  therein  where  a  thin  and  broken 
image  of  me  used  to  walk  in  the  days  of  convales- 
cence. I  recalled  my  terrible  eagerness  to  be  taken 
away  from  that  place,  and  to  get  well — to  get  well ! 

And  it  seemed  worth  while  to  have  come  back  to 
Mount  Vernon,  just  to  look  at  that  place  where  I 
so  nearly  lost  the  battle.  Not  to  speak  of  our  pres- 
ent cheerful  purpose  to  take  a  fresh  hold  here,  where 
we  started  Papyrus  over  seven  years  ago, — and  put 
up  the  best  fight  of  all  1 


XV 

HIS  WANDERINGS   OVER 

AS  the  Gentle  Reader  may  have  lost  his  bear- 
ings or  perhaps  fallen  off  the  Van  by  this 
time,  I  beg  to  recapitulate.  The  Papyrus, 
then,  was  duly  born  at  Mount  Vernon,  N.  Y.,  where 
it  bravely  weathered  the  first  perils  of  infancy,  and 
where  I  did  my  share  of  walking  the  floor  o'  nights 
with  it.  It  got  its  first  tooth  at  Somerville,  N.  J., 
and  there  it  really  began  to  sit  up  and  take  notice. 
Unluckily,  it  soon  fell  into  financial  measles,  and  was 
almost  finished  off  by  printer's  croup  !  For  a  change 
of  air,  we  took  it  to  Cranford,  N.  J., — only  a  mat- 
ter of  eighteen  miles — the  same  as  from  Wimbledon 
to  Wombledon.  There  it  did  perk  up  surprising, 
and  by  this  time  I  was  so  firmly  persuaded  of  the 
varied  advantages  of  an  active  life  that  nothing 
seemed  easier  than  to  make  one  or  two  more  towns 
before  linking  back  to  New  York  and  completing 
the  circuit. 

I  am  aware  that  these  migrations  of  The  Papyrus 
have  subjected  us  to  much  wounding  criticism  at  the 
hands  of  certain  persons  the  color  of  whose  money 

94 


HIS   WANDERINGS   OVER  95 

we  never  got  any  fair  reason  to  suspect.  In  spite  of 
the  personal  implication,  I  have  heretofore  ventured 
to  point  out  that  every  great  man  has  run  away  at 
least  once  in  his  lifetime,  as  a  piece  of  strategy,  and 
that  the  world  has  loved  him  the  more  for  it.  'Twere 
easy,  had  I  the  space  at  disposal,  to  show  the  im- 
portance of  the  Hegira  or  Getaway  in  universal  and 
particular  history.  And  I  might  add  copiously  to  the 
list  of  immortal  runagates  already  cited.  But  the 
hints  given  above  must  suffice. 

Has  not  the  Tentmaker  warned  us  that  "the  Mov- 
ing Finger  writes"?  I  agree  with  the  Man  of 
Naishapur,  for  had  I  not  moved  often,  and  quickly, 
too ! — you  would  not  be  reading  this  o'er-true  tale. 

Ben  Franklin  (who  moved  around  quite  some  him- 
self) used  to  say  that  two  movings  were  worse  than 
a  fire.  I  don't  know,  for  sure,  as  we've  never  had 
a  fire,  thank  goodness;  but,  speaking  as  a  mere  ama- 
teur, I  should  guess  that  if  you  don't  expect  to  get 
rich  beyond  the  dreams  of  avarice  by  moving,  you 
will  not  be  sorely  disappointed.  We  have  never 
gone  into  it  with  a  mercenary  motive  and  so  we  have 
had  that  reward  which  pure  disinterestedness  always 
brings.  So,  I  say,  a  little  after  that  famous  traveler, 
Sancho  Panza,  Blessed  be  the  man  that  invented — » 
Moving! 

To  the  patient  reader  I  will  now  confess  that 
my  wanderlust  is  pretty  well  appeased.  I  feel  that 
I  have  seen  enough  of  the  faces  of  men  and  cities; 


96        AT  THE   SIGN   OF  THE   VAN 

like  Ulysses,  I  grow  a  bit  weary  of  the  Sign  of  the 
Van,  and  begin  to  pine  for  an  abiding  habitation. 
Then,  too,  the  sun  is  not  so  high  as  once  it  was.  It 
seems  time  to  have  done  with  the  Tent  and  the 
Open  and  to  take  root  and  Refuge  somewhere.  Alas, 
my  friends,  every  homo  migrans  is  a  stans  homo  at 
the  last! 

Oh,  it's  not  so  long  since  some  of  the  things  which 
I  have  recalled,  but  a  good  while  ago  I  stopped 
keeping  count  of  the  poor  devils  who  started  even 
with  us,  or  before  us,  and  left  their  bones  in  Dead 
Man's  Valley.  Once,  or  maybe  twice,  I  was  of  a 
mind  to  set  down  my  load  and  rest  there  a  little, 
— the  place  looked  so  cool  and  inviting  and  nobody 
in  a  hurry  to  get  away!  But  something  warned  me 
to  push  on — push  on,  and  now  I'm  mighty  glad  that 
I  did;  so  here  again  the  migratory  instinct  saved  us. 

In  the  beginning  I  scarcely  dared  hope  The 
Papyrus  would  go  so  far — the  Money  Problem  stood 
dead  ahead,  a  wall  forty  feet  high,  and  no  way  to 
get  around  it.  My  friends  were  a  unit  in  predicting 
for  us  a  merry  shortness  of  days.  Needless  to  say, 
my  few  enemies  were  enthusiastically  of  the  same 
opinion.  Allah  has  a  way  of  confounding  the  wise ! 

The  Papyrus  has  lived  unto  this  day,  at  any  rate, 
and  that  is  food  enough  for  joy.  True,  there  have 
been  two  or  three  unequal  periods  of  suspended  ani- 
mation, when  our  friends  gave  us  up  for  lost,  and 
decently  performed  in  our  favor  the  usual  mortuary 


HIS   WANDERINGS   OVER  97 

rites.  But  in  each  instance,  happily,  the  reports  of 
our  decease,  as  in  the  case  of  a  famous  humorist, 
turned  out  to  be  greatly  exaggerated.  For  a  time 
we  ourselves  thought  that  we  were  really  and  truly 
dead,  but  the  cheerful  preparations  for  the  funeral, 
and  especially  the  flattering  remarks  of  the  mourn- 
ers, induced  us  to  renew  the  struggle.  It's  a  bore 
to  be  dead,  anyway,  and  the  worst  thing  about  it  is 
that  one  hasn't  the  privilege  of  talking  back.  So 
thoroughly  satisfied  are  we  with  our  brief  experi- 
ence that  I  hereby  solemnly  promise  our  friends  that 
the  thing  shall  not  happen  again. 


XVI 

THE     LITERARY     MOTIVE 

HAVING  now  told  how  the  crime  was  origin- 
ally committed  and  to  some  degree  per- 
petuated, perhaps  you  will  expect  me  to 
say  a  word,  in  self-justification,  as  to  the  impelling 
motive.  This  would  take  me  much  farther  back 
than  the  starting  date  of  Papyrus, — indeed,  to  that 
immortal  consulship  of  Plancus  whereunder  hot  and 
chafing  youth  first  begins  to  take  account  of  its 
dreams  and  ambitions. 

At  that  time  I  was  one  of  a  small  group  of  young 
men  affected  with  literary  hives  (dubbed  by  the 
learned  cacoethes  scribendi),  who  were  proud 
to  call  themselves  the  School  of  Revolt.  In 
point  of  fact,  though  we  revolted  very  much,  we 
wrote  very  little  and,  for  reasons  obvious,  published 
even  less.  All  the  same,  we  wore  the  red  waist- 
coat, would  have  shed  our  blood  for  Hernani,  and 
did  our  humble  best  to  scandalize  the  bourgeoisie. 

In  those  young  and  fiery  days  there  was  nothing 
we  hated  so  much  as  what  the  world  called  success — 
the  prize,  we  deemed  it,  of  mediocre  talents,  the  bait 

98 


THE    LITERARY    MOTIVE  99 

of  the  commonplace,  the  lure  of  the  conventional. 
We  would  have  none  of  this  kind  of  success — away 
with  it! — and,  to  be  strictly  candid,  it  would  have 
none  of  us !  We  detested  it  utterly  and  were  banded 
against  it,  both  for  ourselves  and  others. 

I  need  hardly  explain  that  the  success  we  hated 
was  the  triumph  of  a  sort  of  talent  without  true 
genius  or  ideality — the  reward  which  convention  be- 
stows on  mediocrity — the  mess  of  pottage  which  the 
world  gives  to  those  who  forfeit  their  freedom  of 
utterance — in  a  word,  the  surrender  of  the  highest 
liberty  of  thought  at  the  bidding  of  a  vulgar  and 
commercialized  society  represented  by  the  Publish- 
ing Trade. 

This  unworthy  kind  of  success  we  rather  felicit- 
ously figured  as  Dagon,  from  an  ancient  god  of  the 
Philistines,  and  its  votaries  we  named  Dagonites, 
scathingly  referring  to  them  as  such  whenever  we 
broke  into  print,  though  they  didn't  seem  to  mind 
very  much.  Naturally,  the  supreme  symbol  of  our  de- 
testation was  the  amiable  Bok  of  Philadelphia,  and 
we  would  have  gone  to  the  stake  rather  than  contrib- 
ute anything  to  that  person's  publication — which  sig- 
nified to  us  all  that  was  bourgeois  and  successful.  I 
think  now  that  we  ought  to  have  loved  Bok  for  the 
intense  satisfaction  he  gave  us  and  the  stern  pride 
with  which  he  inspired  us  to  withhold  from  him  our 
valuable  Works.  We  never  wearied  of  poking  fun 
at  him  and  his  remarkable,  original,  and  fully 


ioo      AT  THE   SIGN   OF  THE   VAN 

patented  discovery,  the  Young  Girl.  We  were  fond 
of  quoting,  as  the  mental  formula  of  Bok,  typifying 
his  unique  gift  of  humor,  a  solemn  warning  from  his 
journal,  to  the  effect  that  "widows  should  not  wear 
tan  shoes."  The  youngest  of  us  invariably  referred 
to  him  with  playful  irony  as  "young"  Mr.  Bok. 
Such  is  the  force  of  habit  that  I  still  so  think  of  him, 
and,  though  I  have  seen  pictures  of  the  man  repre- 
senting him  as  entirely  denuded  of  cosmic  fleece,  I 
cannot  fancy  him  as  ever  having  reached  maturity. 
It  is  only  just,  may  I  not  say,  that  art  like  Mr.  Bok's 
should  have  the  privilege  of  immortal  youth  1 

Faith,  I'm  not  so  absurdly  young  myself,  and  the 
Holy  Angels  of  Time  have  moulted  not  a  few  pin- 
feathers  onto  my  head  since  first  I  began  to  gibe  at 
this  great  man.  O  Mr.  Bok!  tell  us  your  secret. 
At  what  magic  fountain  have  you  drunk — what 
charmed  Bandusia, — that  you  go  on  forever,  like 
Tithonus,  immune  against  age  and  decay  and  Phila- 
delphia, thrilling  and  correcting  the  bosom  of  the 
Young  Girl — and  always  increasing  your  circulation ! 

I  have  said  that  we  refused,  from  purely  artistic 
motives,  to  contribute  to  Mr.  Bok's  journal;  but,  as 
I  have  also  mentioned,  we  did  very  little  contribut- 
ing in  any  direction.  However,  in  default  of  the 
detested  bourgeois  media  of  publication — I  refer  to 
the  so-called  standard  magazines — we  read  our 
Works  to  one  another,  with  sincere  admiration  of 
the  same,  or  occasionally  recited  them  to  a  bohemian 


THE    LITERARY    MOTIVE          101 

company  no  less  select  and  appreciative,  over  the 
pipe  and  the  stein. 

And  how  delightful  those  meetings  were,  with 
their  frequent  genuine  surprises  in  the  way  of  un- 
looked-for talent;  with  their  readings  from  uncut 
leaves — leaves,  alas,  never  destined  to  be  cut,  of  au- 
thors never  to  become  known  of  the  great  public,  for 
which  we  properly  loved  and  prized  them  the  more; 
with  all  the  grace  of  that  only  true  bohemianism 
which  foregathers  with  youth  and  hot  brains,  which 
believes  all,  condones  all,  imagines  all,  dreams  all, 
promises  all,  hopes  all, — but  never  really  succeeds 
or  arrives ;  glad  and  content,  with  its  heart  of  youth, 
only  to  be  on  the  way, — and  the  way  so  pleasant! 

In  those  days  I  never  saw  one  of  us  with  a  pub- 
lisher's cheque, — a  few  of  us,  I  am  proud  to  say, 
have  remained  heroically  shy  in  this  respect.  The 
mere  fact  would  have  been  taken  as  a  confession  of 
mediocrity,  and  I  may  say  there  wasn't  one  of  us 
whom  such  a  thing  would  not  have  instantly  damned 
and  proscribed  from  our  close-drawn  circle  of  com- 
radeship, enviously  stigmatized  by  a  hireling  of  suc- 
cess, as  the  "submerged  literary  tenth." 

I'm  not  so  sure  now  that  there  actually  was — as 
we  liked  to  believe  and  declare — a  conspiracy  of  the 
publishers  against  us,  but  it  never  occurred  to  me 
then  that  our  conspiracy  against  them  was  not  a  whit 
less  effective  and  complete.  Ha !  Ha !  that  villainy 
which  they  did  teach  us  we  bettered  only  too  well. 


102       AT  THE   SIGN   OF   THE   VAN 

Intellectually,  we  were  of  the  Left  Bank,  a  small 
detachment  of  that  forlorn  hope  which  gaily  marches 
on  forever  to  defeat — a  tiny  band  of  that  mighty 
host,  eternally  foredoomed  to  disappointment, 
which  only  at  rare  intervals  succeeds  in  throwing  a 
vedette  across  the  borders  of  the  Promised  Land  of 
Art. 


XVII 

A     BROTHER-AT-ARMS 

DEATH  elbows  us  every  day  in  the  street, 
stares  out  at  us  from  the  newspaper, 
comes  in  to  gossip  with  the  morning  caller, 
salutes  us  like  a  mute  sentry  at  the  House  of  Life 
whereat  we  are  all  but  passing  guests.  It  is  equal 
partner  with  life,  consulted  in  every  important  con- 
juncture— a  silent  but  inexorable  partner,  with  the 
casting  vote  and  the  right  to  nullify.  It  is  the 
eternal  Trite  and  the  everlasting  Novel;  the  most 
paltry  trap-door  denouement  and  the  Supreme  Cli- 
max; the  one  thing  absolutely  fixed  and  certain,  yet 
as  it  touches  ourselves,  the  most  unexpected  and 
dramatic  of  conclusions. 

I  had  thought  to  have  my  friend  review  a  book 
of  mine  just  issued  from  the  press,  and  had  given 
word  that  a  copy  be  sent  to  him.  I  seemed  to  see 
him  receiving  it  and  glancing  through  the  pages 
with  that  quick  judging  eye  of  his,  and  thereupon 
I  became  painfully  conscious  of  the  many  weak  spots 
in  the  book  which  would  challenge  his  censure.  Then 
I  reflected  that  his  kindness  kept  terms  with  his 

103 


104      AT  THE   SIGN   OF   THE   VAN 

integrity,  and  I  began  to  look  forward  with  a  relish- 
ing zest  to  his  written  criticism.  A  few  days  and 
there  came  the  word  of  his  sudden  death,  the  more 
sudden  and  shocking  that  I  had  not  known  of  his 
illness.  Now,  alas,  it  falls  to  me  to  review  the 
closed  book  of  my  friend's  life  with  such  heart  as 
grief  allows  me  for  the  office. 

I  may  be  pardoned  for  mentioning  so  slight  a 
matter  personal  to  myself  in  connection  with  this 
lamented  and  untimely  death.  It  is  to  me  a  touch- 
ing thought  that  one  of  the  last  tasks  which  the 
dying  writer  proposed  to  himself  was  to  review  a 
book  of  mine.  Comrades-in-arms,  as  we  were,  with 
many  literary  loves  and  hates  in  common,  I  am  glad 
to  think  that  there  was  something  to  recall  me  to 
his  memory  before  the  end. 

Percival  Pollard  was  one  of  the  earliest  con- 
tributors to  Papyrus,  and  his  work  did  much  to  fix 
the  note  we  aimed  at  from  the  beginning.  Some  of 
his  finest  essays  on  literature  and  art  may  be  found 
in  the  back  volumes  of  this  magazine.  It  is  hard 
to  realize  that  his  place  at  our  little  round  table  is 
vacant  forever;  that  the  pen  which  talked  so  wisely 
and  well  may  talk  to  us  no  more. 

His  reputation  was  in  no  just  measure  to  his  liter- 
ary talents.  Regarded  strictly  as  a  literary  critic, 
he  leaves  no  superior  in  America  and  few  worthy 
to  rank  with  him  as  to  scholarship,  discernment  and 


A    BROTHER-AT-ARMS  105 

artistic  sincerity.  He  was  master  of  three  liter- 
atures, English,  French  and  German,  and  was  yet 
as  free  from  pedantry  as  any  writer  known  to  me. 
But  there  is  still  to  «be  mentioned  the  quality  or 
trait  which  set  him  apart  from  the  run  of  literary 
critics,  or  those  by  courtesy  so  called.  His  hatred 
of  bad  literature  amounted  to  a  passion.  Every- 
body but  himself  could  see  that  it  prejudiced  his 
own  interests — one  cannot,  as  Pollard  did,  attack 
with  impunity  so  much  that  is  accepted  and  sanc- 
tioned by  success.  There  is  too  little  of  the  true 
literary  spirit  in  this  country  to  support  the  forlorn 
hope  of  which  Pollard  made  himself  the  unflinching 
champion.  Success  is  the  American  reply  to  every- 
thing— commercial  success  as  expressed  in  tall  fig- 
ures and  many  editions,  and  in  all  the  vulgarity  of 
the  reclame. 

It  may  well  be  that  Pollard  was  embittered  by 
the  unequal  struggle:  he  hated  literary  fake,  pre- 
tence and  ineptitude,  as  I  have  said,  with  an  austere 
passion  which  left  him  no  rest,  to  the  detriment  per- 
haps of  the  more  genial  side  of  his  mind  and  talent. 
In  talks  with  him  I  frequently  tried  to  make  him 
see  this,  urging  that  he  give  more  of  himself,  espe- 
cially of  his  creative  rather  than  critical  self,  and 
leave  the  public  to  learn  its  own  lessons,  as  it  must 
in  the  end.  He  would  not  admit  that  there  could 
be  any  more  important  work  for  him  than  the  ex- 
posing of  literary  sham,  incompetence  and  unmerited 


io6      AT  THE   SIGN   OF  THE   VAN 

.success,  so  that  to  the  very  last  he  xmtinued  to  waste 
style  upon  the  styleless,  learning  upon  the  unlearned, 
brilliancy  upon  dunces,  and  uncommon  powers  of 
mind  upon  the  mediocrities  of  current  literature. 
Notwithstanding,  those  who  knew  him  best  were  able 
to  trace  in  his  later  work  the  growth  of  a  more 
genial  and  catholic  spirit.  Also  his  criticism  was 
becoming  more  constructive,  though,  as  always,  with- 
out compromise,  and  less  directed  at  things  which 
are  of  their  nature  without  remedy.  Finally,  he  was 
beginning  to  evince  a  prudent  regard  to  that  which 
he  himself  had  to  give  to  Literature,  as  is  manifest 
from  one  or  two  recently  published  books  that  have 
added  much  to  his  reputation.  And  his  mind  was 
busy  with  many  hopeful  projects  when  Death  took 
the  pen  from  his  hand. 

Seven  years  ago  he  wrote  in  The  Papyrus:  "Real 
friendships  are  much  like  happiness :  they  are  at 
their  finest,  their  loveliest  perfection  when  least  con- 
sidered. It  is  often  indeed  only  when  the  friend- 
ship dies  that  one  realizes  what  noble  thing  this  was 
that  has  been  and  is  no  more." 

True  and  pregnant  words  to  which  the  memory 
of  him  now  silent  lends  a  solemn  pathos. 

In  the  same  fine  essay  he  confessed  that  he  rarely 
made  a  friend,  and  it  is  certain  that  he  was  ordinar- 
ily cold  and  reserved,  save  with  his  intimates,  the 
fastidiousness  and  nice  election  of  his  mind  never 
being  absent  from  his  manner.  But,  like  most  men 


A    BROTHER-AT-ARMS  107 

in  whom  the  affections  are  not  easily  moved,  he 
gave  himself  wholly  where  his  choice  of  friendship 
fell,  and  sometimes  returned  rather  more  than  due 
measure. 

Finally,  he  is  gone,  with  a  stint  of  good  work  to 
his  credit  that  will  long  keep  his  name  a  living  ref- 
erence in  the  mouths  of  men.  I  have  no  doubt  that 
his  austere  example  and  precept  will  bear  fruit  in 
the  gradual  rejection  from  American  literature  of 
the  unworthy  things  against  which  he  inveighed, 
almost  a  solitary  voice,  until  the  end.  Stricken  as 
he  was  in  the  hour  when  life  seemed  to  hold  its  best 
gifts  in  reserve  for  him,  I  can  yet, — knowing  the 
quiet  courage  of  the  man, — fancy  him  yielding  to 
the  inevitable  without  weakness  or  fear,  in  the  spirit 
of  those  brave  lines  of  Henley  which  he  was  wont 
to  admire  so  much : — 

Crosses  and  troubles  a-many  have  proved  me, 

One  or  two  women  ( God  bless  them!)  have  loved  me. 

I  have  worked  and  dreamed,  and  I've  talked  at  will, 

Of  art  and  drink  I  have  had  my  fill. 

I've  comforted  here,  and  I've  succored  there, 

I've  faced  my  foes,  and  I've  backed  my  friends, 

I  have  prayed  for  light,  and  I've  known  despair. 

Now  I  look  before,  as  I  look  behind, 

Come  storm,  come  shine,  whatever  befall, 

With  a  grateful  heart  and  a  constant  mind, — 

For  the  end  I  know  is  the  best  of  all! 


BOOK   THE    SECOND 

(TO  ELLWOOD  HENDRICK) 
ADVENTURES  IN  LIFE 


71  /t~Y  son,  I  would  have  you  speak  the  Truth, 

/I//      the  W\hole  Truth,  and  nothing  but  the 

JL  w  JL       Truth;  and  also  I  would  have  you  bear 

in  mind  that  the  Business  of  this  world  is  mainly 

carried  on  by  Lying. 


CROSSING  THE   FERRY 

WHEN  the  ferry-boat  dug  her  nose  into  the 
icy  flotsam  that  choked  the  slip  and,  after 
a  crunching  minute  or  two,  swung  into 
the  broad  channel  of  the  North  River  and  headed 
for  the  Jersey  shore,  the  clocks  were  striking  six. 
There  was  the  usual  crowd  of  home-faring  passen- 
gers, clerks,  laborers,  shop-girls,  business  men,  as 
eagerly  impatient  to  get  to  the  other  side  as  if  they 
never  expected  to  make  the  trip  again.  Everybody 
was  intent  on  making  the  wild  scramble  for  the 
waiting  trains  which  nightly  signalizes  the  landing 
at  the  Jersey  side,  and,  therefore,  accepted  the  heat 
and  discomfort  in  order  not  to  lose  a  possible  sec- 
ond. That  is  always  the  way  of  an  American 
crowd — the  most  impatient  yet  the  most  enduring 
in  the  world. 

I  elbowed  a  scant  passage  through  the  press  and 
reached  the  forward  deck,  where  I  ensconced  my- 
self in  the  bow  of  the  boat  and,  turning  my  back 
to  the  lash  of  a  stiff,  frost-laden  wind,  faced  the 
receding  City.  Instantly  the  spectacle  that  I  saw 

in 


ii2      AT  THE   SIGN   OF  THE   VAN 

drew  from  me  a  cry  of  wonder  and  astonishment 
which  seemed  to  amuse  the  indifferent  ferryites — 
hardened  commuters,  most  of  them — about  me. 

There  was  no  moon  and  the  stars  were  veiled  by 
a  sombre  gray  sky  that  held  a  threat  of  snow — a 
sky  as  void  of  color  and  beauty  as  the  heavy  water 
through  which  we  were  churning.  The  quick  dark- 
ness of  a  February  night  already  sat  upon  the  har- 
bor as  we  cleared  the  slip,  and  Liberty's  torch  shone 
like  a  lost  star.  But  on  the  New  York  shore,  what 
a  glory  of  illumination  !  Those  monstrous  buildings, 
that  in  the  full  day  offend  the  eye  with  their  exag- 
geration, now  appeared,  with  their  thousand  lighted 
and  sparkling  windows,  like  gigantesque  towers  of 
enchantment.  The  tallest  of  them  thrust  their 
torches  in  the  very  face  of  heaven,  like  the  giants 
of  old  fable.  Their  crude  though  bold  angularities, 
their  affronting  assertion  of  a  noble  art  deformed  to 
the  uses  of  commercialism,  their  powerful  and  im- 
pudent defiance  of  the  classic,  their  insolent  vaunt  of 
money, — these  things  were  lost  in  the  wondrously 
ennobling  and  beautiful  effect  of  their  many-twink- 
ling lights,  which  mercifully  left  all  that  repelled  in 
shadow.  And  suddenly  it  dawned  upon  me  that  I 
had  never  really  seen  these  grand  structures  before, 
which  the  miracle  of  their  transformation  revealed 
as  new  and  stupendous  creations  of  the  power  of 
man.  As  I  looked  back  toward  the  departing  shore 
which  holds  half  the  wealth  of  the  world,  guarded 


CROSSING   THE    FERRY  113 

now  by  these  colossal  sentinels  of  light  whose  shoul- 
ders seemed  to  support  the  sky,  the  thought  came  to 
me  that  no  past  age  ever  witnessed  such  a  spectacle. 

Think  of  it!  Nor  Tyre  nor  Sidon,  those  imperial 
cities  of  antiquity  whose  mere  names  overwhelm  the 
imagination,  had  ever  seen  the  like.  Babylon,  with 
her  hanging  gardens  and  all  the  wonders  wrought 
for  kings  who  ruled  as  gods,  could  make  no  such 
boast.  Nineveh,  with  her  hundred  gates  and  her 
superb  temples,  never  dreamed  so  glorious  a  dream. 
Egypt,  with  her  sphinxes  and  her  pyramids  to  whose 
building  men  gave  their  lives  like  the  coral  insect,  fell 
far  short  of  this  in  the  tale  of  her  marvels.  Sardis 
and  Persepolis  had  never  dared  to  imagine  symbols 
of  such  heaven-daring  splendor.  The  glory  that 
was  Greece,  the  grandeur  that  was  Rome,  the  prodi- 
gal imagination  of  the  mad  emperors,  never  con- 
ceived the  simile  of  this  superb  spectacle  which  for 
an  hour  or  so  every  evening  quietly  offers  itself  at 
the  lower  end  of  Manhattan. 

We  were  now  midway  in  our  crossing,  and  the 
charming  appearance  of  many  illuminated  harbor 
craft,  with  here  and  there  a  statelier  vessel — some 
with  a  rainbow  scattering  of  colored  lights  at  their 
mastheads  and  in  their  rigging — together  with  the 
dancing  effect  produced  by  their  being  in  motion,  al- 
most claimed  the  eye  from  the  blazing  Titans  on  the 
New  York  shore. 

Here  again  was  an  exhibition  of  such  beauty  and 


ii4      AT  THE   SIGN   OF  THE  VAN 

splendor  as  never  fell  upon  the  as  yet  unclouded 
vision  of  the  great  poet  who  sang  the  launching  of 
the  thousand  ships  of  Hellas,  the  wrath  of  Peleus' 
son  and  the  sea-tossed  wanderings  of  Ulysses.  Such 
a  spectacle  as  Troad  or  Piraeus  or  Alexandria  never 
saw  in  the  palmiest  days  of  ancient  glory. 

And  I  said  to  myself,  crossing  the  ferry:  Can  it 
be  true,  then,  that  New  York  is  without  poetry  when 
it  is  able  thus  to  thrill  the  soul  with  such  pictures 
of  power  and  beauty?  Is  there  no  suggestion  of 
poetry  in  that  silent  company  of  illuminated  stone 
giants? — in  this  fairy  harbor  with  its  floating  con- 
stellations and  argosies  of  brilliant  color? — in  the 
grandiose  but  overwhelming  figure  of  Liberty? 
Must  the  poet  be  voiceless  in  the  presence  of  beauty 
and  power  manifested  in  symbols  peculiar  to  this 
age  and  this  land?  Or  is  it  not  rather  that  we  have 
no  poet  whose  tiny  soul  does  not  shrivel  up  into 
impotence  before  your  greatness,  O  Mannahatta? 

I  had  reached  this  somewhat  barren  conclusion 
when  the  ferry-boat  crunched  brutally  into  the  Jer- 
sey slip  and  I  was  whirled  away,  breathless  and 
cursing,  amid  the  frenzied  rush  of  commuters. 


II 

THE     LIONS 

DRINK  and  Desire  are  as  two  lions  in  the 
path  of  life,  like  those  that  affronted 
Christian  on  his  way  to  the  Delectable 
Mountains.  Some  men  through  good  fortune,  or 
deficiency  of  temperament,  or  mere  cowardice,  con- 
trive to  evade  them ;  but  the  lot  of  most  manly  men 
is  to  meet  and  wrestle  with  them. 

Those  who  come  off  whole  are  the  better  and 
stronger  for  the  encounter,  and  this  is  the  meaning 
of  William  Blake  when  he  says,  "The  road  to  tem- 
perance leads  by  the  House  of  Excess." 

Sobriety,  moderation,  is  impossible  to  the  young 
man  who  is  getting  for  the  first  time  his  fill  of  love 
and  drink.  Nature  herself  urges  him  on  to  intem- 
perance, even  though  she  shall  whip  him  later  for 
the  sin  with  whips  of  scorpions.  Yes,  Drink  and 
desire  are  two  lions  in  the  way  of  life,  but  some 
of  us  remember  that  after  we  had  fought,  and 
fought  hard,  it  was  pleasant  to  call  a  truce  and  make 
our  bed  with  them. 

For  if  you  have  never  got  drunk  you  do  not 

"5 


n6      AT  THE   SIGN   OF   THE   VAN 

know  the  virtue  of  sobriety  and  have  no  sound  cause 
to  plume  yourself  upon  it.  The  true  test  of  virtue 
is  to  conquer  temperance  through  intemperance — to 
face  the  lions,  like  Paul  at  Ephesus — to  lodge  at  the 
House  of  Excess. 

So,  if  you  have  not  been  tempted  and  favored  by 
women,  your  boasted  continence  is  of  as  little  ac- 
count as  that  of  a  Trappist.  Bring  your  chastity 
to  the  fire! 

I  guess  there  will  always  be  Drink — that  old  lion ! 
— in  spite  of  the  present  determined  attitude  of  the 
parsons  of  America.  They  may  shoo  him  away 
from  this  place  and  that,  and  compel  him  to  be  wary 
in  his  foraging  expeditions,  but  nobody  really  ex- 
pects that  they  will  bring  his  pelt  home  with  them. 

Nor  yet  that  of  his  shyer  mate.  Nature  has  her 
own  wise  purpose  in  throwing  us  to  both  these  lions, 
and  we  need  not  quarrel  with  her  should  we  survive 
our  trial.  Yet  I  suppose  the  stoutest  hero  that  ever 
overcame  them  doubted  not  that  they  took  from 
him  some  virtue  of  strength  and  grace  and  forti- 
tude, lacking  which  he  could  never  again  be  the 
man  he  was. 

The  problem  remains,  how  to  evade  the  lions 
of  Drink  and  Desire,  or  to  get  by  the  House  of 
Excess  without  stopping  or  tarrying  thereat.  I  think 
the  parsons  will  hardly  solve  it  for  us  by  their 
present  crusade  against  the  "cakes  and  ale."  Man 
has  an  incurable  longing  for  the  stuff  o'  temptation, 


THE    LIONS  117 

for  all  daring  hardihood  and  adventure,  for  the  gay 
fooleries  of  two-and-twenty. 

From  tavern  to   tavern 

Youth  saunters  along 
With  an  arm  full  of  girl 

And  a  heart  full  of  song. 

Aye,  and  for  those  sober  pleasures  when,  the  season 
of  careless  youth  being  at  an  end,  the  sweets  o'  the 
night  begin  to  come  in. 

Gillian's  dead,  God  rest  her  bier, 

How  I  loved  her  twenty  years  syne! 

Marian's  married,  but  I  sit  here 

Alone  and  merry  at  Forty  Year, 

Dipping  my  nose  in  the  Gascon  wine. 

In  short,  Nature  will  not  be  denied.  Men  of 
genius,  of  generous,  bold  or  creative  spirit  have  al- 
ways enjoyed  a  certain  license  in  this  regard.  The 
world  has  learned  more  from  their  intemperance  in 
drink  and  love  and  other  things  than  from  the  un- 
shaken virtue  of  a  million  parsons.  Great  vices 
often  presuppose  great  virtues,  and  the  converse  of 
this  is  true  also.  Nature  is  never  less  a  moralist 
than  when  mixing  in  her  alembic  the  materials  of 
human  greatness. 

The  artist  may  be  said  to  claim  a  special  exemp- 


u8      AT  THE   SIGN   OF  THE   VAN 

tion,  though  always  at  his  peril.  But  he  who  would 
recreate  life,  making  such  an  image  as  shall  chal- 
lenge the  reality,  must  live  it  to  the  full.  Yet  better 
were  it  even  for  the  genius  if  he  learn  betimes  that 
the  road  to  temperance  leads  by  the  House  of  Excess 
and  tarry  not  there  too  long  on  his  journey.  Many 
have  so  overstayed  their  time,  like  Burns  and  Lamb 
and  Poe;  and  this  is  the  scandal  of  genius  and  the 
edification  of  small  minds. 

The  only  man  who  should  greatly  regret  having 
lifted  the  latch  at  that  House  is  he  who  remains 
under  a  life-long  necessity  of  intemperance.  Most 
of  us  are  the  better  for  having  caroused  a  while 
there,  and  then,  admonished  by  the  clock,  paid  our 
shot  and  come  on  our  way. 


Ill 

YOUTH     AND     FAME 

MEMBERS     of    the     late     Mr.     Vincent 
Crummles's   Theatrical   Company   were 
in    the    habit    of    sneering    covertly    at 
the  Manager's  gifted  daughter  and  remarking  in 
significant  asides  that  "Hinfant  Phenomenons  will 
grow  old."     Which  the  same  observation  I  have 
often   heard   repeated   with   marked   emphasis  by 
Rupert  the  Red. 

'Tis  a  sad  truth  and  of  wider  application  than  the 
Provincial  Stage.  There  was  Sammy  the  Artist, 
whose  youth  promised  me  and  the  world  so  much, 
still  uncollected  and  unrealized  upon.  Where  are 
you,  O  Sammy,  and  what  manner  of  blight  has  fallen 
upon  those  ardent  hopes  and  dreams  which  we  in 
days  whilom  shared  with  fraternal  fervor!  Alack, 
youth  was  our  best  capital — youth  that  is  even  a 
more  beautiful  and  desirable  thing  than  genius — and 
little  enough  we  thought  of  it.  How  near  seemed  the 
heights  of  Art  to  us  then — or  rather  how  near  did 
we  bring  them  in  the  brave  confidence  and  assured 
immortality  of  twenty  year !  It  was  all  done  in  the 

119 


120      AT   THE   SIGN   OF   THE   VAN 

puffing  of  a  cigarette — like  that!  Art,  my  dear 
Sammy,  as  we  conceived  it,  was  merely  an  expression 
of  our  joy  in  our  youth.  I  admired  your  sketches, 
though  your  genius  fetched  from  the  Scranton  School 
of  Art  and  owed  nothing  to  the  Latin  Quarter.  You 
praised  my  rhymes  and  essays  and  hinted  not  ob- 
scurely that  they  were  the  real  attractions  of  a 
certain  publication  which  shall  be  nameless  (truth 
compels  the  admission  that  it  survived  the  later 
defection  of  both  our  talents).  I  foresaw  you  in  a 
very  little  while — say  a  year  or  two — rivaling 
Whistler,  whom  with  an  easy  but  not  unbecoming 
familiarity — tons  deux  de  le  metier,  voila! — you 
habitually  invoked  as  "Jemmy."  You,  not  to  be 
outdone  in  friendly  appreciation,  predicted  the 
eclipse  of  Lamb  or  at  least  Stevenson,  and  the  com- 
parative extinction  of  Heine.  Of  course  I  didn't 
believe  it  for  a  minute — not  even  then — but  ...  I 
liked  you,  Sammy! 

And  mark  you  this,  should  these  lines  chance  to 
meet  your  eye:  Would  even  the  glory  and  success 
we  promised  each  other  in  those  far-off,  foolish 
days  be  worth  the  hope  and  dream  of  youth  that 
then  were  ours?  Nay,  I  had  rather  lose  the  years 
between,  O  Sammy,  to  find  myself  again  with  you 
on  an  open  road  or  breasting  a  windy  hillside,  swap- 
ping with  you  Theories  of  ^Esthetics,  jostling  the 
Olympians  from  their  stools,  and  settling  the  most 
delicate  and  age-long  contentions  of  Art  in  the 


YOUTH   AND    FAME  121 

puffing  of  a  cigarette.  I  know  well  that  if  I  were 
to  meet  you  to-day,  besides  other  lamentable  changes 
that  the  years  have  wrought,  you  would  not  have  the 
hardihood  to  call  Whistler  "Jemmy,"  as  you  were 
wont  with  the  gay  license  of  youth  and  the  freedom 
of  a  prospective  rival.  Helas,  Sammy,  we  used  to 
talk  much  of  the  Future,  that  Land  of  Sunrise  from 
which  the  gold  and  the  splendor  crock  off  as  we 
advance.  But,  honest  now,  Sammy! — so  far  as  we 
have  gone — wasn't  the  Past,  the  blessed,  blunder- 
ing, ignorant,  self-deceiving,  hopeful  Past,  better, 
after  all?  ... 

And  Jerome  the  Sculptor  (also  known  as  the 
Firbolg  from  a  Celtic  strain  by  which  he  came 
honestly) ,  your  brother  in  youth  and  promise,  what 
news  of  him  and  the  world?  Himself  a  statue  finer 
than  any  he  will  ever  make,  what  a  glorious  thing 
he  was  to  look  upon,  with  his  heroic  thews  and 
muscles,  his  light  yet  granite  limbs,  his  deep-set, 
flashing  eye,  his  teeth  long  and  keen  and  white  as 
those  of  an  Irish  beagle.  Often  in  our  country 
walks  it  was  his  delight  to  elude  us  and  then,  farther 
along  at  some  unlooked-for  point,  startle  us  with 
wild  screams  and  simian  chatterings  or  with  a  sud- 
den volley  of  harmless  missiles.  Fear  of  man  or 
animal  he  had  none.  Once  we  were  halted  on  a 
narrow  road  by  a  farmer's  dog,  half  bull,  half 
mastiff,  and  a  terror  to  the  wayfaring.  Jerome 
stepped  forward,  stick  in  hand,  and  met  the  threat- 


122      AT  THE   SIGN   OF  THE  VAN 

ening  beast  with  a  fixed  gaze  (Sammy  and  I  hastily 
sizing  up  the  nearest  likely  trees).  Then  he  said 
quietly,  as  if  addressing  a  confidential  irenic  exhorta- 
tion to  the  canis  horrendus:  "Run  back  to  the  house 
right  away  now,  like  a  good  little  pup,  or  I'll  take 
your  guts  out  and  tie  them  around  your  neck!" 
With  one  lamentable  howl  Cerberus  turned  tail  and 
fled,  giving  us  the  road.  .  .  . 

Jerome  could  punch  a  bag  equal  to  the  Chocolate 
Cyclone,  but  he  was  gentle  as  a  child  and  never  used 
his  great  strength  save  in  self-defense  or  protecting 
the  weak.  He  could  run  ten  miles  without  getting 
breathed.  To  see  him  vault  a  six-foot  fence  was 
to  think  of  Kipling's  hero  who  "trod  the  ling  like  a 
buck  in  spring."  When  the  Onondaga  Indians  came 
to  play  ball  with  us  (Jerome  was  a  famous  pitcher) 
they  hailed  him  as  a  brother,  and  he  seemed  to  have 
no  trouble  getting  into  the  powwow  game,  though 
I  have  no  reason  to  believe  that  Gaelic  was  the 
diplomatic  language  of  the  occasion.  Afterward 
they  adopted  him  into  the  tribe  and  when  he  played 
ball  with  them  you  could  not  have  told  him  from 
an  aborigine. 

Well  do  I  remember,  O  Sammy,  your  fierce  jeal- 
ousies, each  contending  for  the  priority  of  his  chosen 
Art  and  little  minded  to  concede  anything  to  the 
other.  It  was  Whistler  and  Rodin,  mahl-stick  and 
chisel;  and  often  the  dispute  became  more  personal 
than  academic.  How  foolish  this  hot  rivalry  must 


YOUTH   AND    FAME  123 

seem  to  you  both,  now  that  the  years  have  brought 
in  their  impartial  audit  and — among  other  things — 
Rodin  and  Whistler  stand  where  they  did.  Would 
you  and  Jerome  shake  hands  and  laugh  over  the 
times  when  each  dubbed  the  other  an  Infant  Phe- 
nomenon? I  wonder! — 'tis  said  that  artistic  jeal- 
ousy is  the  bitterest  and  longest-lived  of  all  the  pas- 
sions. 

As  for  me,  I  will  gladly  make  up  any  quarrel 
(saving  my  honor)  with  a  comrade  of  youth.  Yes, 
though  I  pride  myself,  like  Samuel  Johnson,  upon 
being  an  honest  hater  and  have  never  failed  in 
strict  courtesy  to  return  the  word  or  the  blow. 
Moreover,  he  will  not  find  me  cold  or  nursing  an 
ancient  grudge  should  he  remind  me  that  nothing  has 
occurred  to  diminish  the  fame  of  Lamb  or  Heine. 

Finally,  I  make  no  difficulty  of  admitting  (with 
Rupert  the  Red)  that,  however  interesting  Infant 
Phenomenons  may  be  as  a  class,  "they  do  grow 
old." 


IV 

MILADY     OF    THE     ANISE 

AMONG  the  diversions  of  that  joyous  element 
known  as  the  "Smart  Set"  there  is  one 
called  chasing  the  anise  seed  bag  which  has 
always  interested  me  for  reasons  to  be  set  forth 
hereafter.  The  sport  is  in  manner  as  follows  (not 
being  smart  myself,  instructed  readers  will  pardon 
an  occasional  slip  in  my  technique). 

An  expert  rider,  trailing  from  the  saddle  a  bag 
of  anise  seed  (which  hath  a  peculiarly  pungent  odor 
exciting  the  hounds  like  the  native  smell  of  Master 
Reynard  himself),  goes  over  a  selected  course,  no 
whit  less  difficult  and  daring  than  a  fox  would  natu- 
rally follow  in  order  to  elude  his  pursuers.  The 
rider  being  given  a  fair  start,  the  dogs  are  allowed 
to  take  up  the  scent,  and  soon  they  are  in  full  cry 
after  the  anise,  followed  as  best  they  may  by  ye 
merrie  ladies  and  gentlemen  of  the  hunt. 

The  pleasure  and  success  of  the  sport  depend 
naturally  upon  the  skill  and  dash  of  the  rider  bear- 
ing the  scent.  If  he  fail  not  in  these  qualities  and 
have,  besides,  a  thorough  knowledge  of  the  country, 

124 


MILADY    OF   THE   ANISE          125 

I  am  assured  that  the  chase  is  little  inferior  to  a 
bona  fide  fox  hunt.  For  the  chase  is  the  thing, 
after  all,  whether  or  not  a  brush  be  lifted  at  the 
end  thereof. 

Now,  the  fox  often  gives  ye  merrie  ladies  and 
gentlemen  a  lively  run  for  their  money  and  then 
fools  them  at  the  finish;  but  his  human  understudy 
is  rarely  able  to  do  this.  However  he  may  double 
and  turn  and  seek  to  throw  off  the  pack  by  devices 
worthy  of  a  fox  of  quality,  the  dogs  usually  get  him 
at  last.  For,  as  I  have  said,  the  anise  hath  a  pecu- 
liarly pungent  odor,  and,  once  given  the  scent,  the 
hounds  seldom  lose  it. 

Right  onto  this  little  word-picture  of  the  anise- 
seed  hunt  I  would  fain  tack  a  useful  moral.  There 
is  a  type  of  woman  of  whom  I  am  always  reminded 
when  I  read  of  the  fashionable  sport  above  de- 
scribed. We  all  know  her,  don't  we?  The  woman 
who  invites  pursuit  from  many,  who  drops  the  scent 
now  here,  now  there,  and  gaily  leads  the  hunters 
on  what  she  intends  shall  be  a  fruitless  chase,  a 
ha-ha  and  a  mocking.  But  the  merrie  gentlemen 
straining  and  hallooing  behind  are  not  so  biggod  sure 
of  that,  eh,  what!  While  the  scent  is  given  to  them 
they  will  hang  to  the  trail,  and  we  all  know  the 
surprising  accidents  of  sportsman's  luck.  In  certain 
respects,  too,  it  is  an  old  observation  that  men  and 
dogs  are  much  of  a  breed. 

Milady  of  the  Anise  (as  I  may  call  her)  is  not 


126      AT  THE   SIGN   OF  THE   VAN 

and  does  not  mean  to  be  a  bad  woman  or  a  loose. 
She  liketh  the  rapture  of  the  hunted.  She  saith 
unto  herself,  "What  sport  to  fool  these  idiots,  for 
I  am  not  their  quarry, — I  am  only  the  anise/" 
Then  she  turneth  in  her  saddle,  showing  her  saucy 
croup  to  advantage,  whereat  the  foremost  pursuers 
swear  a  great  oath  and  dig  deeper  into  their  stirrups. 

Rare  sport  indeed!  Milady's  eye  flashes  and  a 
brighter  color  springs  to  her  cheek.  Now  she 
trilleth  a  clear  laugh  of  invitation  and  defiance  to 
ye  merrie  gentlemen  of  the  hunt,  at  the  same  time 
scattering  the  seductive  odor  on  the  breeze.  Tallyho  ! 
— hoicks ! — hoicks !  Whereat  ye  merrie  gentlemen 
pluck  up  fresh  heart  of  hope  and  spur  on  their 
steeds  amain.  .  .  . 

I  am  sorry  for  Milady  of  the  Anise,  for  though 
she  believes  that  she  is  leading  only  a  mock  hunt, 
and  has  no  idea  of  yielding  her  fair  self,  yet  will  it 
surely  end  in  defeat  for  her.  Ride  she  never  so 
shrewdly,  still  is  she  riding  for  a  fall.  And,  such 
is  the  hazardous  fortune  of  the  chase,  it  may  well 
be  that  she  shall  fall  at  last  a  prey  unto  the  most 
ignoble  of  the  hunters, — nay,  some  ill-smelling  varlet 
or  groom  of  the  stable.  For  the  hunt  of  the  anise 
brings  all  men  to  a  level  and  she  who  drops  the 
scent  must  abide  the  issue. 

The  trouble  with  Milady  is  as  old  as  the  hunt- 
ing instinct  in  men  or  the  flirting  habit  in  women. 


MILADY    OF   THE    ANISE          127 

Helen  of  Troy  had  it  and  Evelyn  of  Gotham  is  a 
famous  modern  instance.  To  be  desired  by  all  men, 
or  as  many  as  she  can  pass  the  anise  to, — that  is  her 
passion  and  her  ultimate  defeat.  She  really  means 
no  harm  to  herself — and  she  is  always  resolved  to 
sidestep  at  the  critical  moment.  But  she  can't  help 
feeling  unhappy  if  any  man  within  reach,  on  receiv- 
ing the  scent,  fail  to  show  the  usual  symptoms.  She 
was  born  to  tantalize  rather  than  to  gratify,  and  her 
rarest  satisfaction  is  in  knowing  that  many  lusty 
gentlemen  sweat  with  desire  for  her  and  bite  deep 
into  their  pillows.  There  is,  however,  a  sort  of 
kindness  in  her  cruelty,  for  she  doth  not  deny  them 
the  small  coin  of  love — the  vague  promise  of  a 
sheathed  glance,  the  moth's  kiss,  trifling  caresses, 
charlotte  russe,  as  it  were,  in  lieu  of  the  strong  meat 
of  passion.  A  dangerous  game,  but  Milady  loves 
the  excitement  and  she  never  really  looks  her  best 
save  when  she  is  dropping  the  anise,  with  her  shy 
smile  expectant  of  new  conquests,  or  when  she  hath, 
like  Anne  of  Austria,  a  dozen  men  at  heel. 

Yes,  I  take  leave  to  pity  Milady,  though  she  will 
not  thank  me.  Dearly  must  she  pay  in  the  end  for 
her  facile  triumphs,  her  lavish  thrills  and  titillations, 
her  hair-breadth  'scapes  i'  the  imminent  deadly  flir- 
tation. Be  her  self-sought  perils  of  the  saddle  or 
the  sofa,  of  the  parlor  or  the  paddock,  they  can 
have  but  one  conclusion.  And  that  is  of  a  kind  that 
never  shows  her  the  winner. 


128      AT  THE   SIGN   OF  THE  VAN 

Poor,  vain  little  feather-head!  To  be  the  chase 
and  byword  of  many,  to  soil  herself  with  their 
touch  and  that  gross  contact  with  desire  which  is 
even  worse,  she  resigns  the  noblest  dream  that  can 
possess  a  woman's  soul.  The  great  love  absorbing 
self  and  summing  up  the  whole  of  life,  Now  and 
the  grand  Forever,  in  one  divine  consecration,  is  not 
for  her.  How  should  it  seek  her  among  the  crowd 
of  idle  or  lustful  followers,  ever  besieging  her  like 
the  suitors  of  Penelope?  Nay,  how  could  its  sweet 
and  solemn  voice  be  heard  above  the  yelping  chorus 
of  the  pack,  the  fanfare  of  the  horns,  and  the  tal- 
lyho! — hoicks! — hoicks! — of  the  anise-seed  hunt? 


V 

A    WHITMANITE* 

I  AM  a  Whitmanite. 
That  is  to  say,  I  belong  to  the  oldest  family 
and    social    connection    on    this    earth — the 
Joiners.     There  is  only  one  other  connection  just 
as  old  and  respected — I  mean  the  Belongers.    The 
doings  of  both  these  happy  families  make  up  the 
bulk  of  what  is  called  history.     In  fact  it  is  quite 
impossible  to  fancy  the  human  race  without  them — 
cut  out  the  Joiners  and  Belongers  and  you  are  back 
at  the  fifth  day  of  Creation. 

Ah,  my  friends,  we  are  joiners  and  belongers, 
every  one  of  us — our  souls  are  ill-tempered  for  the 
Golgotha  of  loneliness  and  abandonment.  The 
heart  will  and  must  put  forth  its  tendrils,  and  it  is 
by  virtue  of  this  strongest  tendency  of  human  nature 
that  we  are  met  here  to-night  in  the  common  bond 
of  love  and  admiration  for  a  great  lover  of  human 
kind.  And,  when  you  think  of  it,  was  there  ever 
a  joiner,  a  belonger  like  old  Walt?  Why,  he  joined 
the  whole  human  race  without  exception,  without 

*Address  to  the  Walt  Whitman  Society. 
129 


130      AT  THE   SIGN   OF   THE   VAN 

distinction  of  color  or  creed;  and  he  never  asked 
man,  woman  or  child  for  a  certificate  of  character. 
His  great  loving  heart  had  room  for  each  and  all — 
there  was  not  a  despised  wretch  wearing  the  sem- 
blance of  man  anywhere  on  the  wide  earth  for  whom 
he  could  find  a  harsher  word  than  "Camarado" — a 
word  forever  consecrated  by  the  touch  of  his  spirit. 
Here  was  a  joiner,  a  belonger  indeed!  The  grand- 
est utterance  of  human  brotherhood,  of  human  love 
and  charity — the  highest  and  noblest  expression  of 
true  humanity,  I  dare  avouch,  that  the  ages  have  to 
record,  is  it  not  his? — 

"Not  until  the  sun  excludes  you 
Will  I  exclude  you." 

Are  not  these  words  sublime  enough  to  be  writ- 
ten across  the  sky  in  letters  of  eternal  fire?  Grander 
have  never  fallen  from  the  lips  of  saint  or  seer. 
Ah,  my  friends,  on  the  day  when  men  shall  take 
these  glorious  words  to  heart  and  live  up  to  the 
divine  meaning  of  them  there  will  be  only  one  cause 
in  this  sad  old  world — that  of  God  and  humanity, 
and  only  one  social  connection,  the  Brotherhood  of 
Man.  .  .  . 

To  return  to  the  lighter  vein:  I  will  not  deny,  my 
friends,  that  there  is  yet  another  reason  why  I  am 
a  Whitmanite — why,  no  doubt,  several  others  here 
present  are  united  to  this  Fellowship.  Native  mod- 


A   WHITMANITE  131 

esty,  the  shrinking  diffidence  of  a  publisher,  would 
indeed  withhold  me  from  saying  more  on  this  head; 
but  truth  and  Horace  Traubel  urge  me  to  keep 
nothing  back.  Well,  then,  my  friends,  since  I  must 
tell  all,  I  am  a  Whitmanite  for  the  further  reason 
that  I  have  experienced  the  great  privilege  of  Cos- 
mic birth.  It  is  a  very  extraordinary  privilege  in- 
deed, and  I  hate  to  claim  it  for  myself  in  this  brash 
manner;  but  truth  and  Traubel  will  not  be  satisfied 
with  less. 

Now  some  of  you  may  wish  to  ask  me,  "What 
is  this  Cosmic  birth  of  which  we  hear  so  much  in  the 
esoteric  literature  of  the  day,  The  Conservator,  The 
Papyrus,  etc.?" 

I  will  try  to  tell  you.  When  a  man  experiences 
the  Cosmic  birth,  he  becomes  for  the  first  time  con- 
scious of  his  relation  to  the  All — not  the  "alto- 
gether," I  hasten  to  assure  you,  but  the  Wholeness, 
the  Oneness,  the  Unity  of  things.  Up  to  that  very 
moment  he  may  have  been,  like  our  friend  Le  Gal- 
lienne,  a  poet  of  the  nth  power,  or,  like  our  beloved 
Traubel,  a  continuator  of  the  Camden  oracles — or, 
on  the  other  hand,  he  may  have  been  a  mere  pistareen 
— the  word  is  Emerson's — given  over  absolutely  to 
the  smallest  and  meanest  concerns  and  ranking  cos- 
mically  with  the  tumble-bug.  He  may  have  chased 
the  nickel  with  a  pertinacity  that  held  him  even  while 
he  slept;  he  may  have  reckoned  his  own  infinitesimal 
soul  above  the  value  of  the  Universe.  No  matter; 


132      AT  THE   SIGN   OF  THE   VAN 

when  the  Cosmic  hour  strikes,  the  man  is  new- 
created;  his  narrow  personality  falls  off  with  all  its 
petty  aims;  his  little  two-by-four  soul  shrivels  up 
and  blows  away;  he  gets  a  larger  soul,  a  grander 
personality;  in  short,  from  a  parish  pistareen 
(Emerson  again)  he  is  transformed  into  and  re- 
mains a  world-man. 

It  is  also  true  that  he  usually  gets  a  new  and  richer 
crop  of  hair.  However,  this  does  not  always  fol- 
low, for  I  see  in  this  audience  persons  who  have 
enough  and  to  spare  of  the  Cosmic  fleece  and  others 
who  would  be  glad  to  make  a  more  strictly  Com- 
stockian  exposure  of  their  domes  of  thought.  About 
the  only  thing  you  can  safely  say  on  this  point  is,  that 
it  might  be  risky  to  put  yourself  in  the  way  of  be- 
coming a  Cosmic,  just  for  the  hair.  Still  we  ex- 
pect it  in  the  approved  and  authentic  Cosmic,  and 
when  we  find  it  in  great  luxuriance,  conjoined  with 
the  rarest  gifts  and  qualities,  as  in  the  case  of — but 
I  must  not  be  personal. 

The  Cosmic  birth  may  strike  a  man  at  any  age  be- 
tween thirty  and  fifty — rarely  before  or  after  the 
latter  term.  It  may  occur  with  or  without  what  I 
shall  call  woman-foolishness,  but  candor  forces  the 
admission  that  I  have  never  known  or  heard  of  a 
Cosmic  who  lacked  a  strong  tincture  of  that — in- 
deed, as  with  the  hair,  some  have  enough  to  pass 
around. 

One  of  the  largest  and  heaviest  books  I  ever  saw, 


A   WHITMANITE  133 

written  by  the  late  Dr.  Bucke  of  Toronto,  gives  a 
complete  account  of  the  Cosmic  life  and  traces  its 
beginning  and  progress  in  the  careers  of  many  fam- 
ous persons.  The  fact  that  Dr.  Bucke  was  all  his 
life  a  keeper  of  the  insane  has  no  bearing  on  the 
matter,  one  way  or  another;  even  though  a  captious 
criticism  might  argue,  with  some  show  of  reason, 
that  not  a  few  of  his  subjects  were  what  is  called, 
in  the  higher  technique,  of  the  "bughouse"  order. 
Besides,  don't  we  know  that  the  average  man  is 
always  sane?  (I  speak  frankly,  for,  of  course,  no 
specimen  of  him  is  with  us  to-night) — and  the  fact 
only  serves  to  set  off  the  occasional  aberrations  of 
genius. 

So,  my  friends,  we  may  as  well  admit  that  to  lead 
the  Cosmic  life  is  to  invite  the  world's  censure  and 
to  be  deemed  more  or  less  mad  by  all  who  tack 
closely  to  the  conventional.  Worse  than  this,  if  the 
theory  of  bats  will  not  hold — the  Cosmic  happen- 
ing, say,  to  show  himself  capable  in  ordinary  affairs 
— then  the  world  cries  out  upon  him  for  a  faker  and 
a  fraud.  And  should  he  lack  the  business  sense,  not 
knowing  how  to  carry  his  money  to  the  corner,  the 
Philistines  abuse  him  just  the  same.  Some  recent 
articles  in  the  conventional  press  prove  that  we  are 
hated  quite  as  heartily  for  our  very  common  fail- 
ure as  for  our  very  rare  success.  Think  of  that! — 
they  begrudge  us  even  our  failures ! 

On  the  whole,  the  way  of  the  Cosmic  life  is  a 


134      AT  THE   SIGN   OF  THE   VAN 

thorny  road  to  travel.  Of  course,  it  has  its  allevi- 
ations and  even  its  inspiring  features — and  then 
there  is  always,  or  at  least  usually,  the  hair — else 
so  many  persons  would  not  make  a  free  choice  to 
travel  it.  I  say  so  many,  having  regard  to  Dr. 
Bucke's  immense  catalogue  and  this  large  audience. 
Personally,  I  have  known  only  about  a  half-dozen 
genuine  Cosmics  in  all  my  life.  I  cannot  say  that 
they  were  happy  in  proportion  to  their  uniqueness, 
and  I  should  think  the  Cosmic  habit  a  bad  thing  to 
pass  around — certainly  it  would  spell  trouble  for 
the  average  man. 

For  as  no  birth  can  be  without  travail  and  an- 
guish, so  the  Cosmic  process  of  re-birth  is  very  pain- 
ful to  the  person  directly  affected,  and  especially  to 
his  domestic  relations,  if  he  have  any.  Here  in 
truth  is  the  sore  spot.  You  see,  the  Cosmic  One 
has  to  face  his  old  environment  with  a  new  soul, 
new  dreams,  new  ambitions,  new  pretensions,  and 
the  Environment  (which  usually  means  the  wife  of 
his  pre-Cosmic  bosom)  can't  look  at  him  with  a 
straight  face.  Do  you  wonder — with  all  that 
hair?  .  .  . 

I  have  never  heard  of  a  woman  who  was  not 
jealous  of  the  Cosmic  birth  when  it  befell  her  hus- 
band; who  did  not  rebel  and  struggle  against  it, — 
yes,  and  lie  awake  nights  plotting  to  hamstring  it. 
In  most  cases  women  like  to  keep  on  knowing  the 
man  they  married — it  seems  so  homelike  and  natu- 


A   WHITMANITE  135 

ral;  and  they  find  it  very  hard  to  adjust  themselves 
to  the  Cosmic  fact  or  miracle — they  want  to  be  the 
only  miracle  in  his  life !  .  .  . 

From  all  this  it  is  clear,  my  friends,  that  we 
Cosmics  are  not  the  happiest  people  in  the  world, 
in  spite  of  the  great  notoriety  and  profit  we  occa- 
sionally achieve.  One  has  to  pay  a  price  for  being 
different  from  the  rest  of  the  world,  and  being 
different  is  the  very  essence  of  the  Cosmic  game. 
But  it  happens  now  and  then — and  this  is  the  sad- 
dest of  all — that  a  man  will  have  paid  the  price, 
and  a  cruel  price  at  that,  only  to  find  in  the  end 
that  there  really  was  no  difference  worth  making  a 
fuss  about. 

However,  my  friends,  I  give  you  this  piece  of  en- 
couragement: One  may  be  a  Cosmic  without  be- 
coming a  Whitmanite  and — what  some  of  you  will 
like  even  better — one  may  be  a  Whitmanite  with- 
out becoming  a  Cosmic.  The  Cosmic  life  is  dis- 
tinctly not  in  the  class  of  contagious  diseases,  else 
by  this  time  the  whole  town  of  Camden  and  a  large 
part  of  Philadelphia  would  be  hopelessly  infected. 
You  can't  catch  it  by  opening  a  window  to  the  east 
and  assuming  a  receptive  mental  pose.  And  this  is 
well,  for  there  never  can  be  at  one  time  more  than 
a  few  persons  fit  to  wear  this  double  intellectual 
distinction — a  distinction  charged  with  peril  and  re- 
sponsibility. Let  these  have  their  throne  and  the 
fierce  white  light  beating  thereon: — the  rest  of  us 


136      AT   THE   SIGN   OF   THE   VAN 

may  well  be  content  to  sit  back  and  applaud  as 
simple  hearers  and  spectators,  just  plain  Whitman- 
ites,  taking  thankfully  our  share  in  the  solace,  the 
inspiration  and  the  joy  of  this  Fellowship,  founded 
to  perpetuate  the  loving  legacy  of  the  world's  Great 
Comrade. 


VI 

PRO    AMICIS     ET     HOSTIBUS 

LET  me  tell  you  a  thing:  I  am  glad  of  my 
friends  and  I  am  equally  glad  of  my  ene- 
mies— but  don't  say  a  word  to  the  latter, 
for  then  they  might  want  to  be  my  friends,  which 
would  be  a  loss  and  an  embarrassment!  Truly  I  could 
not  be  what  I  am  without  both  friends  and  enemies. 
Both  are  necessary  to  the  inner  Me.  I  went  wrong 
about  this  for  many  years,  but  now  I  am  wiser — I 
know.  For  we  make  no  headway  without  oppos- 
ing forces — he  who  thinks  to  hurt,  helps  me.  I  love 
my  friends  dearly,  and  yet,  perhaps,  I  owe  even 
more  to  my  enemies — certainly  I  do  in  the  way  of 
mental  stimulus.  If  I  have  gotten  anything  out  of 
the  fire,  it  was  the  hatred- of  an  enemy  that  nerved 
me  to  the  trial.  One  must  confess  it,  there  is  some- 
thing narcotic,  emasculating  in  the  goodness  of  one's 
friends.  The  man  who  makes  me  fight  with  tooth 
and  claw  has  done  me  a  rougher,  yet  withal  a  bet- 
ter, service  than  he  who  laps  me  in  the  soft  Lydian 
airs  of  friendship.  Anything  that  ministers  to  our 
self-satisfaction  is  an  opiate — effort  ceases  with  the 

137 


138      AT  THE   SIGN   OF  THE   VAN 

spur  of  anxiety  removed.  And  nothing  will  so  fos- 
ter a  good  healthy  anxiety  as  to  feel  that  you  are 
waging  a  truceless  battle  with  those  who  will  neither 
ask  nor  give  quarter.  Oh,  yes  1  I  want  my  ene- 
mies to  live  on  as  such,  nor  would  I  wish,  like  the 
Hebrew  King  who  walked  with  God,  to  bring  down 
the  hoar  head  of  a  single  one  of  them  to  the  grave 
in  blood.  Living,  they  do  me  good;  dead,  I  should 
soon  forget  them. 

Often  I  wrap  myself  in  the  benevolence  of  my 
friends  as  in  an  eider-down  comforter — ah,  how 
soothingly  sweet  to  lull  oneself  to  sleep  thinking  of 
those  kind  hearts !  Alas !  after  such  a  night  I  find 
it  hard  to  take  up  my  daily  task — in  a  world  of  milk 
and  honey,  where  were  the  use  of  this  painful  ef- 
fort? And,  really,  for  a  writing  man  or  woman, 
one  could  not  prescribe  a  more  fatal  diet  than  a 
steady  course  of  kindness.  If  you  doubt  this,  look 
at  the  literature  of  those  swine  of  Epicurus  who  are 
buried  to  the  buttocks  in  the  trough  of  success  and 
self-content. 

Luckily,  few  of  the  scribbling  tribe  are  subjected 
to  a  peril  which  would  not  merely  threaten  their 
literary  style,  but  their  very  occupation  as  well. 
A  little  hate, — I  would  not  say  too  much, — a  bit  of 
Swift's  steva  indignatio,  is  an  excellent  corrective. 
For  example,  I  was  languid  at  my  desk  this  morning; 
could  not  get  into  my  proper  vein — there  was  really 
nothing  to  write  about,  I  said  to  myself,  even  while 


PRO    AMICIS    ET    HOSTIBUS       139 

I  went  on  spoiling  good  paper  and  rejecting  sheet 
after  sheet.  Yet  all  this  time  I  knew  what  the 
matter  was — oh,  yes!  I  knew  it  well,  for  the  thing 
had  happened  before.  Kindness!  A  sweet  and 
gracious  woman  had  just  given  me  such  proof  of 
appreciation,  of  generous  regard,  of  helpful  sym- 
pathy, that  I  could  not  go  on  with  my  work  for 
thinking  of  my  happiness  in  having  such  a  friend. 
And  so,  like  Titus,  1  should  have  lost  a  day  in  mere 
self-complacency  had  not  the  post  brought  a  sharp 
reminder  that  there  were  some  enemies  of  mine 
abroad  in  the  world — the  world  which  in  imagina- 
tion I  was  about  to  swallow  up  as  my  oyster!  It 
was  the  veriest  trifle  at  that,  a  cowardly  threat  from 
some  jolt-head  filius  nullius  who  dared  not  sign  the 
name  he  wears  without  warrant  of  blood.  But  it 
won  the  day.  I  got  back  into  form  at  once  and, 
instead  of  writing  a  bitter  denunciation  of  human 
kind,  as  you  might  expect,  I  did  in  fact  turn  out  an 
admirable  essay  on  the  Christian  obligation  of  lov- 
ing one's  neighbor  as  oneself,  which  drew  tears 
from  my  own  eyes.  .  .  . 

The  superstition  that  genius  is  exempt  from  or- 
dinary laws  is  still  vigorous  (though  the  debtor's 
clause  is  held  in  less  honor  than  formerly) , — and 
so  Mr.  James  McNeill  Whistler  may  urge  his  whim- 
sical pretence  never  to  have  found  or  made  a  friend. 
A  bit  of  irony  that  defeats  itself,  for  has  it  not 
drawn  many  hearts  to  the  unpatterned  "Jemmy"? 


i4o      AT  THE   SIGN   OF   THE   VAN 

But  indeed,  if  we  would  confess  it,  few  of  us  have 
exercised,  however  slightly,  the  "gentle  art  of  mak- 
ing enemies"  without  deep  cause  for  regret.  Time, 
too,  shames  the  fighter  in  us.  It  has  been  said  that 
hate  is  as  exquisite  an  emotion  as  love  itself,  but  I 
do  not  believe  that,  like  love,  it  is  immortal.  Ra- 
tional minds  do  not  lay  up  grudges — there  is  so 
much  to  love  in  the  world!  .  .  . 

I  have  had  my  own  fights  and  plenty  of  them, 
chiefly  because  I  must  balk  at  the  peck  of  dirt  which 
is  said  to  be  every  man's  portion  in  this  world. 
Some  of  my  quarrels  I  looked  for  with  a  hungry 
zeal,  and  they  are  not  all  to  be  referred  to  a  date 
when  Plancus  was  consul;  others,  and  perhaps  the 
most  serious  ones,  were  forced  upon  me.  Yet  I  now 
could  wish  heartily  that  my  name  might  not  provoke 
an  angry  or  unkind  thought  in  any  breast.  For  I 
do  not  myself  bear  grudges,  being  of  a  race  that 
forgives  more  easily  than  it  forgets;  and  in  all  the 
world  I  have  perhaps  only  one  open  account  of  this 
nature.  It  is  a  pretty  bad  one,  too,  because — I 
don't  mind  telling  you — the  party  was  a  friend,  in 
the  Whistler  definition,  who  after  seeking  to  pluck 
out  the  heart  of  my  mystery,  then  tried  to  crowd  me 
off  the  Cosmos.  This,  if  he  had  not  been  a  fool  as 
well  as  a  knave,  he  would  not  have  sought  to  do. 
For,  given  a  just  cause  of  quarrel,  life  is  sweeter 
to  those  who  wait  for  their  revenge  than  to  such  as 
scrupulously  observe  the  commandment  of  St.  John. 


PRO   AMICIS    ET    HOSTIBUS        141 

The  only  defect  in  the  Christian  heaven  is  that  it 
affords  no  satisfaction  of  this  kind — yet  Lazarus 
was  not  without  a  thrill  of  it  in  Abraham's  bosom ! 
But  my  friends,  my  real  friends — how  my  feeling 
for  them  belies  the  Whistler  cynicism !  For  I  love 
them  with  a  jealous  fondness,  and  yet,  as  Cassandra 
was  never  believed  for  all  her  gift  of  prophecy,  so, 
like  the  ill-fated  daughter  of  Priam,  I  am  often 
tortured  by  the  coldness  or  incredulity  of  my  friends. 
A  few  of  them  (whom  indeed  I  love  best  of  all) 
are  foolishly  timid  because,  forsooth,  the  good  God 
gave  me  a  beak  and  talon  to  defend  myself.  But 
never  mind — the  day  is  not  far  when  they  will  be 
glad  to  give  love  for  love  in  measure  heaped  and 
overflowing.  .  .  . 

Dear  friends,  kind  enemies,  when  you  shall  both 
abandon  me,  then  will  it  be  time  for  me  to  lose  hope 
and  heart  indeed! 


VII 

TARTARIN* 

A  CONDENSED    version    of    the    following 
letter    appeared    in    the    New    York    Sun 
(1911): 
To  the  Editor  of  the  Sun — Sir: 

Will  you  permit  a  faithful  reader  of  the  Sun  to 
say  that  he  has  keenly  enjoyed  your  occasional  ref- 
erences to  an  illustrious  person,  identifying  him 
histrionically,  temperamentally  and  artistically  with 
the  immortal  Tartarin  of  Tarascon?  Especially  as 
the  undersigned  humbly  believes  that  he  filed  the 
first  caveat  establishing  the  said  likeness,  but  is  glad 
to  waive  whatever  patent  rights  may  be  justly  his 
in  favor  of  the  Sun  and  in  the  interest  of  the  gaiety 
of  nations. 

Perhaps  the  Sun  may  be  willing  to  reprint,  for  the 
sake  of  literary  and  historical  accuracy,  the  origi- 
nal (as  I  take  it)  reference  to  the  Illustrious  One 
as  the  Tartarin  of  his  day  and  country.  With  some 

*After  meditating  deeply  on  the  matter  I  have  concluded  that 
Mr.  Roosevelt  is  rather  an  "adventure  in  life"  than  an  "adventure 
in  letters." 


TARTARIN  143 

necessary  abridgment,  it  is  as  follows,  extracted 
from  an  article  headed  "Tartarin-Teddy,"  which 
was  published  in  one  of  the  weekly  issues  of  the  St. 
Louis  Mirror  during  January,  1900. 

I  sat  in  the  Governor's  reception  room  at  the 
Capitol  in  Albany  the  other  day,  and  watched  Theo- 
dore Roosevelt.  The  chamber  is  magnificent  and 
spacious,  hung  with  portraits  in  oil  of  preceding 
executives,  some  of  whom  made  a  notable  figure  in 
history,  and  at  least  two  of  whom  are  not  without 
contemporary  interest.  But  there  was  present  a 
nervous  gentleman  who  claimed  impatiently  the  at- 
tention from  those  worthies  in  oil  and  gilt.  This 
nervous  gentleman  was  none  other  than  Theodore 
Roosevelt  himself.  Perhaps  I  was  the  only  person 
of  a  large  delegation  who  dared  give  a  thought  to 
aught  else  in  that  splendid  chamber  than  the  hero 
himself  in  propria  persona. 

This  is  not  an  interview  with  Theodore  Roose- 
velt. I  did  not  interview  him,  but  was  one  of  a 
crowd  to  whom  he  addressed  a  few  words.  But  I 
took  the  liberty  of  observing  him  narrowly  as  he 
moved  about  among  the  guests  in  the  conscious  halo 
of  his  heroship.  And  what  do  you  think  was  the 
idea  that  came  to  me  in  watching  the  famous  Rough 
Rider  who  at  this  moment  usurps  so  large  a  share 
of  public  attention? 

Tartarin  1 


144       AT   THE   SIGN   OF   THE   VAN 

Yes,  by  some  subtle  law  of  association  the  hero 
of  fact  was  assimilated  to  the  hero  of  fiction.  I 
closed  my  eyes  at  the  bizarre  absurdity  of  the 
thought  and,  presto! — instead  of  the  great  apart- 
ment with  its  silent  Governors  in  oil  dominated  by  the 
restless  little  Governor  in  the  flesh,  I  saw  the  famous 
garden  of  Tarascon,  with  its  miniature  baobab  and 
other  curious  exotics.  There  was  the  very  house 
with  the  Persian  blinds,  shining  in  the  genial  sun 
of  the  South — that  sun  which,  the  Master  tells  us, 
makes  such  unconscious  liars  (menteurs)  of  the 
brave  people  of  Tarascon.  Presently  comes  into 
the  garden,  with  a  stealthy  air,  as  if  he  feared  an 
ambuscade,  a  short,  stout  man,  watering-pot  in  hand, 
a  huge  szbre  at  his  side,  the  handle  of  a  ^asse-tete 
peeping  from  his  breast,  and  a  revolver  in  either 
side  pocket.  I  know  him  by  the  famous  baobab. 
I  know  him  by  his  armory;  most  of  all,  I  know  him 
by  his  ferocious  moue.  'Tis  he,  the  killer  of  lions  I 
Involuntarily  I  rise  to  hail  him,  "Bravo,  Tartarin!" 
— when  lo!  the  house  with  the  green  blinds,  the 
baobab,  the  mocking,  southern  sun,  Tartarin  him- 
self, all  vanish,  giving  place  once  more  to  a  real 
hero,  Theodore  Roosevelt,  and  the  Governor's 
chamber  at  Albany. 

Not  so  fantastic  as  you  think!  Heroship  is  a 
ticklish  and  dangerous  business.  The  memory  of 
one  day's  scrimmage  on  San  Juan  hill  is  no  effectual 
deterrent  to  the  Muse  of  Laughter.  Dewey  had  a 


TARTARIN  145 

far  greater  day,  and  a  glory  unique,  yet  in  how  brief 
a  time  Dewey  has  proved  himself  vulnerable — 
more's  the  pity!  Roosevelt  has  not  yet  absolutely 
made  an  anti-climax,  but  his  position  is  perilous. 
There  is  little  doubt  that  the  judicious  grieve  over 
him.  His  parrot-cry  of  "the  strenuous  life"  has 
something  of  the  naive  accent  of  Tarascon.  Sound 
to  the  core  is  Roosevelt,  and  unquestionably  a  man 
of  high  ideals,  yet  withal  a  good  deal  of  a  poseur. 
The  flamboyant  publicity  in  which  he  lives  seems 
the  very  breath  of  his  nostrils.  Heine  says  the  first 
Napoleon  had  in  his  air  and  presence  the  repose  of 
the  Greek  statues.  Alas  for  Tartarin — I  mean 
Teddy!  So  lamentably  wanting  in  this  heroic  qual- 
ity is  the  hero  of  San  Juan  hill  that  one  would 
almost  say,  a  convulsionnaire!  Neurotic  in  a  de- 
gree almost  un-American,  and  then  that  terrible 
rictus  corresponding  to  the  Tartarin  moue — here  is 
indeed  a  type  of  hero  strangely  at  variance  with  the 
received  order. 

But  it  is  in  his  literary  exploits  that  our  Teddy 
has  out-Tartarined  Tartarin.  You  know  Tartarin 
never  wrote  his  own  life  and  adventures,  though  he 
has  had,  in  Monsieur  Daudet,  the  most  charming 
of  biographers.  Now,  Teddy  has  done  something 
worse  than  to  take  his  own  life — he  has  taken  the 
life  of  Oliver  Cromwell!  When  we  consider  the 
courage  of  the  doughty  little  Rough  Rider,  entering 
the  literary  lists  against  a  veteran  campaigner  like 


146      AT  THE   SIGN   OF  THE   VAN 

John  Morley,  we  can  no  longer  admit  a  doubt  of 
his  heroship.  And  yet  Teddy's  attempt  to  do  the 
blue-nosed  old  Roundhead  is  not  half  bad.  Of 
course,  the  critics  will  tell  you  it  is  totally  wanting 
in  that  fine  atmosphere  which  Morley  is  able  to 
call  up  from  many  years  of  sustained  study  and 
literary  craftsmanship.  On  these  terms  the  rivalry 
between  the  great  Englishman  and  the  Rough  Rider 
is  broadly  unequal.  Howbeit,  Teddy's  literary 
equipment  is  not  to  be  sneezed  at,  as  all  our  Thebans 
are  aware.  Have  not  his  secretaries  allowed  it  to 
become  known  that  the  Governor  reads  "so  much 
Latin  and  French"  daily,  together  with  the  rest  of 
his  gigantic  labors? 

Malgre  all  that  can  be  said,  the  American  people 
are  bound  to  have  something  to  say  about  Teddy's 
future.  It  is  undeniable  that,  due  reservations 
made,  they  think  pretty  well  of  him.  Is  it  because 
all  America,  like  toute  France,  may  be  un  pen  de 

Tarascon? 

***** 

To  this  matter,  now  ten  years  old,  I  would  add 
a  footnote.  It  asked  rather  more  divination  and 
a  subtler  analysis  of  character  to  discern  the  poten- 
tial Tartarin  in  Mr.  Roosevelt  at  the  time  I  wrote 
than  at  any  later  period  of  the  Great  Career,  and 
especially  since  the  African  anabasis  wherein  he 
actually  emulated  the  exploits  of  Daudet's  hero  on 


TARTARIN  147 

the   latter's   own   chosen   ground.     "All   can   raise 
the  flower  now,  since  all  have  got  the  seed." 

Modestly,  but  not  the  less  insistently,  I  press  my 
claim.  Let  Jacob  Riis  and  the  Thousand  Biogra- 
phers voice  their  brazen  demand  that  the  adjective 
GREAT  be  consecrated  to  HIM  alone  among  the 
worthies  of  history; — still  I  must  beg  to  repeat, 
Messieurs,  that  it  was  I  who  first  saw  him  as  Tar- 
tarin,  even  as  Daudet  first  saw  his  immortal  pro- 
totype,— the  one  role  he  has  played  with  continuous 
and  consistent  success,  in  which  his  greatness  calls 
forth  no  envy  and  his  laurels  are  voted  with  univer- 
sal acclaim. 


VIII 

AMERICANUS    SUM 

THE  Goddess  of  Liberty  looks  decidedly 
asquint  these  days  as  she  surveys  the 
goings-on  of  some  conspicuous  Americans. 

Mr.  Freddie  Mahtin,  for  example,  who  has  been 
indiscreetly — if  not  indecently — exposing  his  mind 
in  a  popular  magazine.  I  do  not  find  Mr.  Mahtin 
original  as  a  thinker,  or  suggestive  as  a  social 
prophet,  or  weighty  as  a  political  economist,  or 
impressive  as  a  publicist,  or  entertaining  as  a  liter- 
ary artist.  To  be  strictly  candid,  Mr.  Mahtin 
amuses  me  only  in  one  respect — he  is  so  frankly 
conscious  of  the  plush  on  his  chair. 

Also,  in  this  particular,  he  is  really  significant. 
In  every  paragraph  Mr.  Mahtin  refers  to  his  own 
envied  "Class,"  the  "highest  social  Class,"  the 
"Class  I  represent,"  the  "Middle  Class,"  the 
"Classes,"  etc.,  etc.  I  thought  to  count  these  refer- 
ences in  a  single  article,  but  gave  it  up  after  a  page 
or  two. 

That  Mr.  Mahtin  should  be  invited  to  tell  his 
Snob's  Rosary  in  public  seems  to  me  an  ominous 

148 


AMERICANUS    SUM  149 

matter.  It  is  not  very  long  since  the  word  Class,  in 
this  invidious  social  notation,  was  justly  taboo  in 
our  country,  and  no  magazine  of  a  popular  charac- 
ter would  have  ventured  to  sprinkle  its  pages  with 
the  offensive  term.  Nor  was  it  employed  in  gen- 
eral conversation — people  did  not  talk  Class  be- 
cause they  did  not  think  Class  1  Whence  cometh 
the  change?  Surely,  if  there  be  anything  hateful  to 
the  American  spirit,  it  is  this  designation  and  all 
that  it  connotes.  Mr.  Mahtin,  however,  uses  it 
with  the  assurance  of  an  Englishman  of  caste  writ- 
ing to  the  London  Times,  and  works  it  a  good  deal 
harder. 

Nor  has  he  been  rebuked  by  the  press  generally, 
which,  indeed,  finds  a  profit  in  recording  the  trivi- 
alities of  our  make-believe  aristocracy.  I  have 
seen  many  comments  elicited  by  his  articles,  and 
some  of  them  in  a  sarcastic  vein,  but  not  a  single 
one  which  took  up  the  point  here  noticed.  Truly 
it  would  seem  that  Mr.  Mahtin,  spite  of  his  absurd 
plush  and  piffle,  had  something  worth  while  to  teach 
us — if  the  "Classes"  have  at  length  really  arrived. 

What  Mr.  Mahtin  did  not  need  to  teach  us  was 
that  the  American  snob  is  the  most  offensive  and 
peculiarly  detestable  sample  of  the  genus  to  be 
found  anywhere  in  the  world.  But  his  inept  con- 
fessions abundantly  emphasize  the  fact.  A  volup- 
tuous egotism  pervades  them.  They  radiate  Guppy. 
This  daring  regenerator  of  Society,  this  hater  of 


150      AT  THE   SIGN   OF   THE   VAN 

Heliogabalus,  this  lover  and  would-be  restorer  of 
our  simple  republican  traditions,  is  pruriently  anx- 
ious to  prove  himself  of  the  purple.  How  virile 
and  dignified  is  the  expression  "my  own  set"  on  the 
lips  of  a  man !  And  how  keen  a  satire  Mr.  Freddie 
Mahtin  unconsciously  offers  on  the  present  estate  of 
the  American  Idea  and  the  decline  of  taste  and 
decency  in  the  American  periodical  press  I 

Mr.  Mahtin's  effort  would  have  charmed  a  cer- 
tain Middle  Class  person  of  the  last  century,  the 
author  of  the  "Book  of  Snobs"  and  the  creator  of 
"Charles  Yellowplush,"  for  the  light  which  they 
throw  on  his  pet  province.  Mr.  Thackeray,  it  will 
be  recalled,  wrote  avowedly  in  the  character  of  a 
snob  the  better  to  identify  himself  with  his  theme. 
Mr.  Mahtin  would  probably  disclaim  any  such  in- 
tention, but  curiously  enough  it  amounts  to  the  same 
thing.  For  he  is  only  interesting,  if  interesting  at 
all,  when  he  speaks  and  thinks  (if  to  accuse  him  of 
thinking  be  no  violence  to  the  Spirit  of  Truth)  in 
the  manner  peculiar  to  his  Class. 

In  Park  Row,  New  York,  and  the  regions  con- 
tiguous thereto  it  used  to  be  an  article  of  faith  that 
Mr.  Whitelaw  Reid's  spinal  column,  like  the  brain 
of  the  "no  biggod  nonsense"  young  man  in  Dickens, 
had  been  frozen  on  the  night  of  his  birth  and  never 
got  thawed  out  subsequently.  Whether  the  rigidity 
of  Mr.  Reid's  vertebras  was  due  in  greater  part  to 


AMERICANUS    SUM  151 

natural  constitution  or  to  the  indurating  effect  of 
worldly  prosperity,  is  now  an  idle  question,  and  an 
impertinent  one  as  affecting  our  late  Ambassador  at 
the  Court  of  St.  James's. 

This  stern  and  unbending  republican  rose  at  once 
to  the  highest  favor  among  the  aristocratic,  royalty- 
loving  English  by  his  judicious  and  splendid  hos- 
pitality and  his  ill-concealed  contempt  for  his  own 
country.  Patrician  airs  seemed  native  to  the  proud 
American,  and  the  celebrated  spine  became  won- 
drous flexible  in  a  court  dress.  To  be  sure,  these 
things  are  not  distinctly  novel  in  an  American  Am- 
bassador at  St.  James's,  but  it  must  be  allowed  that 
Mr.  Reid  carried  them  to  a  perfection  heretofore 
unknown.  In  a  strictly  political  sense,  it  may  be 
said  that  Mr.  Reid's  presence  at  the  English  Court 
offered  a  complete  reparation  for  the  revolt  of  the 
American  Colonies  in  1776. 

But  Mr.  Reid  is  never  so  admirable  and  so  splen- 
didly un-American  as  when  he  interprets  the  "con- 
servative attitude"  toward  literature  or  politics  or 
what  not,  for  his  English  hearers.  Thus,  I  find  that 
he  has  been  giving  his  views  on  Byron  before  the 
University  College  of  Nottingham,  the  occasion 
being  the  inauguration  of  a  Chair  of  English  Liter- 
ature in  honor  of  the  great  poet.  And  that  may  be 
another  reason  why  our  Goddess  of  Liberty  is  look- 
ing asquint. 

The  American  Ambassador  in  his  public  expres- 


152       AT   THE   SIGN   OF  THE   VAN 

sions  is  presumed  to  speak  for  the  American  people. 
Now,  it  is  safe  to  say  that  no  American  has  ever 
given  utterance  to  so  much  that  is  hostile  to  the 
American  spirit  as  did  Mr.  Whitelaw  Reid  in  his 
Nottingham  address.  Yet  that  address  has  been 
printed  extensively  in  this  country,  with  perfunctory 
newspaper  praise;  but  I  have  not  seen  a  single  honest 
comment  thereupon.  To  judge  from  the  attitude  of 
the  press,  Mr.  Reid  fairly  spoke  the  mind  of  his 
countrymen  with  regard  to  Byron.  If  so,  then  God 
help  America  1 

But  it  is  not  true,  Reid  and  the  stupid  press  to 
the  contrary  notwithstanding.  We  are  not  a  nation 
of  snobs  and  degenerates — at  least  not  yet! 

What  says  Reid  of  the  greatest  liberty-loving  poet 
in  English  literature?  That  his  work  was  the  "liter- 
ature of  revolt  and  for  the  most  part  of  -unwise  and 
unsuccessful  revolt.  It  was  revolt  against  society; 
revolt  against  those  features  of  morality  on  which 
society  sets  up  the  most  exacting  standards;  revolt 
against  his  order;  revolt  against  theology  if  not 
against  religion;  and,  finally,  revolt  against  many 
established  opinions,  most  established  institutions, 
and  against  some  established  governments.  Still  his 
revolutions  were  all  failures." 

This  quotation  gives  the  tone  of  Mr.  Reid's  esti- 
mate of  Byron  and  his  influence.  It  procures  him 
at  least  one  unenviable  distinction:  he  is  the  first 


AMERICANUS    SUM  153 

American  of  note  to  censure  Byron  for  revolt  against 
his  order! 

But  the  stern  American  Tory  goes  even  beyond 
this  in  passing  sentence  on  the  Great  Poet.  He 
cites,  with  implied  disapproval,  Byron's  confessed — 
"plain,  sworn,  downright  detestation  of  every  des- 
potism in  every  nation."  In  the  same  way  he  re- 
bukes the  noble  Poet  for  his  sympathies  with  Ire- 
land which  led  him  into  "wild  outbursts  against 
Castlereagh." 

Castlereagh !  The  contriver  of  the  infamous  Act 
of  Union  I  Carotid-artery-cutting  Castlereagh,  on 
whose  self-inflicted  death  Byron  penned  the  bitter 
epigram — 

•So  he  has  cut  his  throat  at  last — What? — Who? — 
The  man  that  cut  his  country's  long  ago! 

Mr.  Reid's  own  sympathies  are  plainly  with 
Castlereagh  and  established  government,  and  one 
can  hardly  doubt  that,  had  he  lived  in  the  fine  old 
Tory  times  "when  George  the  Third  was  king," 
he  would  have  done  his  utmost  to  oppose  and  hinder 
a  certain  George  Washington  fighting  for  liberty. 
There  were  many  of  his  kidney  in  America  in  those 
times  that  tried  men's  souls,  and  they  were  the 
crudest  enemies  the  patriot  fathers  had  to  face. 

Among  the  memorable  works  of  this  proud 
American,  along  with  his  persecution  of  the  senile 


154      AT  THE   SIGN   OF   THE   VAN 

and  broken  Greeley,  the  world  will  not  soon  forget 
that  he  tried  to  raise  his  insect  voice  against  the 
great  Poet  of  Liberty  who  sang — 

Can  Europe  find  no  Champion  and  no  child 
Such  as  Columbia  saw  arise  when  she 
Sprang  forth  a  Pallas,  armed  and  undefiled? 
Or  must  such  minds  be  nourished  in  the  wild, 
Deep  in  the  unpruned  forest,  'midst  the  roar 
Of  cataracts,  where  nursing  Nature  smiled 
On  infant  Washington?     Has  Earth  no  more 
Such  seeds  within  her  breast  or  Europe  no  such 
shore? 

That  the  noble  example  of  Mr.  Whitelaw  Reid 
in  casting  off  the  degrading  superstitions  of  Amer- 
ican liberty  goes  not  wholly  without  fruit  is  evident 
from  the  recent  inspiring  action  of  a  scion  of  the 
House  of  Astor,  transplanted  to  England  but  deriv- 
ing its  enormous  revenues  from  this  despised  coun- 
try. Young  Mr.  Astor  voted  in  the  Commons 
against  the  bill  which  aims  at  curtailing  the  power 
of  the  Lords  and  enlarging  the  liberties  of  Eng- 
land. He  has  never  acquired  American  citizenship, 
having  been  brought  up  in  England,  while  his  father, 
William  Waldorf  Astor — the  most  superb  specimen 
of  the  snobiscus  Americanus  known  to  this  genera- 
tion— has  renounced  it.  Is  it  any  wonder  that 
Liberty  should  be  looking  a  bit  queer?  .  .  . 


IX 

THE   EXPATRIATES 

NOWHERE  does  snobbery  spread  a  more 
seductive  lure  for  the  simple  than  in 
the  Foreign  Sections  of  the  New  York 
papers,  especially  the  large  Sunday  issues.  It  is 
well  known  to  the  initiate  that  the  newspapers  and 
the  correspondents  turn  a  pretty  penny  by  those 
"write-ups"  of  Americans  living  or  visiting 
abroad,  which  are  the  main  feature  of  those  so- 
called  "cable  specials."  In  plain  words,  they  are 
paid  advertising  matter,  the  subject  furnishing  the 
quid  while  the  newspaper  provides  the  quo.  And 
very  high  they  come,  these  emollients  to  female 
vanity  and  snobbishness,  as  they  are  for  the  most 
part,  since  both  the  business  office  and  the  cor- 
respondent must  have  their  account.  But  the 
climber  and  the  parvenue  never  stick  at  the  price  of 
such  gratification.  Since  the  beginning  of  things, 
have  not  women  sold  their  souls  to  please  their 
pride  and  vanity?  .  .  . 

Commonly  the  sort  of  stuff  made  in  Europe  as 
described    (though  sometimes  it  is   wholly  cooked 

155 


156      AT   THE   SIGN   OF   THE   VAN 

and  served  on  this  side)  is  fake  or  Action  of  the 
baldest  kind,  or  at  best  a  bare  groundwork  of  fact 
raised  to  the  plane  of  romance  and  decorated  with 
all  the  "frills"  of  the  writer's  imagination.  As  I 
have  said,  only  the  most  ingenuous  readers  are  taken 
in  thereby,  since,  with  the  increase  of  rich  American 
vulgarians  demanding  treatment,  the  practice  is  be- 
come more  of  an  industry  than  an  art.  There  is, 
for  instance,  the  Duchess  di  Spagatti,  a  strong  and  al- 
most regular  Sunday  feature,  whose  mamma,  herself 
not  innocent  of  social  ambition,  is  married  to  Mr. 
Seiglup,  the  big  dry  goods  man.  Seiglup  being  a 
liberal  advertiser,  the  Duchess  thereby  gains  a  point 
over  her  rivals.  Her  letter-press  is  usually  set  off 
with  striking  pictures  two  or  three  columns  deep, 
showing  the  Duchess  in  court  costume,  in  riding 
habit,  etc.  Sometimes  we  get  a  view  of  her  impos- 
ing Roman  palace  (the  Duke  before  his  marriage 
was  as  poor  as  a  facchino  and  had  been  turned  down 
by  several  eligible  American  fortunes),  or  of  her 
seigneurial  estate  in  the  Carpathians.  We  read  that 
she  plays  the  grande  dame  to  perfection,  with  no 
reminiscence  of  her  democratic  up-bringing  and  not 
a  hint  of  the  bargain  counter;  that  she  is  greatly 
admired  at  Court  and  much  sought  after  by  the 
nobility  (Papa  Seiglup's  cheque  book  might  be 
appealed  to  in  confirmation)  ;  that  she  is  doing  won- 
ders in  the  way  of  helping  and  elevating  the  peas- 
antry of  her  several  estates.  And  so  on,  etc.,  etc., 


THE    EXPATRIATES  157 

the  chronicle  appearing  from  time  to  time  with  al- 
most the  regularity  of  Papa  Seiglup's  "ads"  and  with 
an  occasional  identity  of  style. 

But  why  should  the  Duchess  di  Spagatti  be  held 
up  as  a  shining  example  to  the  young  women  of 
America,  especially  those  who  have  dollars  to  ex- 
change for  the  paste  and  tinsel  of  nobility?  I  sub- 
mit that  there  is  no  plausible  excuse  for  thus  giving 
publicity  to  her  triumphs  and  virtues,  and,  though 
the  story  is  set  forth  with  considerable  art,  the 
points  are  overstressed  and  the  note  of  trade  is 
unmistakable. 

There  is  also,  for  another  type  of  expatriate,  our 
charming  and  perennial  friend,  Mrs.  Brown-McGen- 
nis,  wife  of  the  American  consul  at  Pumpernickel 
(you  have  read  about  the  place  in  Thackeray). 
McGennis  was  formerly  billeted  at  Wiesbaden,  but 
the  transfer  was  made  in  deference  to  his  social 
proclivities,  which  would  have  done  honor  to  the 
late  Captain  Costigan.  A  good  fellow  that  same 
McGennis,  with  a  genius  for  irrigating  the  desert 
sands  of  diplomacy.  I  wonder  why  he  isn't  pro- 
moted to  a  first-class  mission.  What  sticks  those 
fellows  are  in  Washington!  But  we  were  talking 
of  his  wife,  to  whom,  entre  nous,  McGennis  owes 
not  a  little  of  the  greatness  which  he  has  attained. 

Not  so  long  ago  we  heard  of  Mrs.  Brown- 
McGennis,  via  the  Sunday  papers,  as  having  dial- 


158       AT   THE   SIGN   OF   THE   VAN 

lenged  the  outspoken  admiration  of  his  late  British 
Majesty  King  Edward  the  Seventh  at  Marienbad. 
At  this  famous  watering  place,  as  you  know,  his 
Majesty  was  accustomed  to  relax  the  rigors  of  roy- 
alty and  meet  informally  many  persons,  the  pleas- 
ure of  whose  company  was  denied  him  at  his  own 
Court.  Well,  the  King  is  unfortunately  no  more, 
but  Mrs.  Brown-McGennis  goes  on,  ever  admirable 
and  ever  admired.  Only  the  other  day  I  saw  a 
long  write-up  of  her,  with  portrait,  in  the  Foreign 
sheet  of  a  great  New  York  paper  (it  must  have  cost 
Milady  a  trifle).  From  this  faithful  oracle  I 
learned  how  she  has  elevated  Pumpernickel  socially 
to  a  point  of  almost  Ministerial  splendor — and,  do 
you  mind,  McGennis  would  be  a  Minister  soon 
enough  if  merit  had  its  due,  and  especially  if  his 
wife's  qualities  were  appraised  at  their  worth.  Here 
is  a  woman  of  brains  and  money  and  ambition,  who 
is  neither  old  nor  ugly, — a  woman  accustomed  to 
the  wide  spaces  and  the  unconventional  freedom  of 
America,  who  has  moreover  filled  a  foremost  place 
in  the  great  crusade  of  her  sex  for  the  suffrage,  etc. 
— I  say,  fancy  such  a  woman  shut  up  in  a  stuffy 
little  German  consulate,  presiding  at  a  small  round 
of  social  inanities  while  she  is  actually  pining  for 
real  worlds  to  conquer.  Alas!  the  old  days  in 
America  were  better,  after  all,  when  in  her  bright, 
forward  way  she  led  the  assemblies  of  women  de- 
manding political  rights,  went  to  conventions  in  dif- 


THE    EXPATRIATES  159 

ferent  parts  of  the  country,  and  had  her  picture  and 
her  speech  in  the  countless  newspapers  of  the  land. 
If  there  were  only  a  chance  of  McGennis  being  ad- 
vanced to  an  Embassy  of  the  first  class !  But  there 
be  some  things  that  even  a  clever  American  wife 
cannot  do  for  a  man — and  here's  the  motive  for  this 
expensive  write-up  in  the  Foreign  Section!  .  .  . 

Liberty  sheds  no  tear  as  she  looks  at  Mrs.  Brown- 
McGennis  pouting  and  angry  over  her  balked  am- 
bition. She  sheds  no  tear,  but  the  little  squint  of 
her  eye  takes  on  an  expression  distinctly  ironical. 
Which  persuades  me  that  Miss  Liberty  reads  her 
Sunday  paper  with  marked  intelligence. 

Why  is  it  that  in  spite  of  so  many  disasters,  dis- 
graces and  disappointments  the  American  heiress 
and  her  mamma  are  as  eagerly  intent  on  securing  a 
titled  match  as  ever  in  the  past?  The  answer  is  to 
be  found  in  the  factitious  romances  of  the  Foreign 
Section.  A  titled  husband  may  be  the  rottenest  risk 
in  the  world,  but  he  offers  a  bait  to  female  vanity 
of  the  dollared  American  sort  which,  social  values 
remaining  as  they  are,  can  never  lose  its  attraction. 
Aristocracy  is  an  invention  of  women;  they  are 
always  composing  a  social  hierarchy,  whether  in  the 
Faubourg  St.  Germain  or  the  Back  Bay  district,  in 
Belgravia  or  in  South  Brooklyn,  on  Upper  Fifth 
Avenue  or  in  Canal  Street.  Therefore,  American 
women  of  the  moneyed  Class  (to  quote  Mr.  Fred- 


160      AT  THE   SIGN   OF   THE   VAN 

die  Townsend  Mahtin)  will  never  cease  to  pant 
after  foreign  titles  for  themselves  or  their  daughters 
as  the  hart  panteth  for  the  water  brooks.  For 
most  women  are  like  children  and  savages, — se- 
duced by  a  glittering  bauble,  while  their  men  folks 
are  commonly  foolish  and  indulgent  enough  to  get 
them  the  worthless  thing  they  covet. 

To  this  rule  there  is  hardly  an  exception  among 
Americans.  I  have  heard  Mrs.  Brown-McGennis, 
in  her  woman's  rights  period,  declaim  like  a  second 
Madame  Roland  against  the  wealth-worshipping 
and  title-hunting  ladies  of  the  Four  Hundred  (she 
never  had  the  entree  there]  and  paint  with  vivid 
eloquence  the  dangers  which  they  threatened  to  the 
Republic.  Well,  McGennis  and  she  were  hardly 
warm  in  their  official  nest  at  Wiesbaden  before  she 
married  off  her  only  daughter  (by  her  first  consort, 
you  know),  a  chit  of  a  girl,  but  with  a  good  solid 
dowry  of  American  dollars,  to  a  doltish  German 
officer  with  one  of  the  seventeen  hundred  minor  de- 
grees of  Teutonic  nobility.  And  deuced  glad  she 
was  to  grab  Fritz,  too,  though  it  sentenced  the  poor 
girl  to  a  horrid  exile  in  Equatorial  Africa.  But  to 
be  noble  and  titled,  though  sprung  from  a  world  of 
nobodies,  is  not  that  something  to  make  a  sacrifice 
for? — I  think  I  hear  the  staccato  tones  of  Mrs. 
Brown-McGennis.  .  .  . 

Have  we  not  lately  seen  a  man  of  many  millions 
marry  his  daughter,  scarcely  out  of  the  nursery,  to 


THE    EXPATRIATES  161 

an  English  nobleman  nearly  thrice  her  age?  A  man, 
too,  whose  family  has  been  disgraced  and  humiliated 
before  the  world  in  a  specially  odious  manner  by  a 
previous  marriage  of  this  type.  One  might  have 
thought  that  here  was  one  hard-headed  American 
who  had  had  enough  of  the  foreign  nobility  in  the 
person  of  his  feather-headed  scamp  of  a  brother-in- 
law,  and  enough  of  notoriety  which  had  covered  his 
name  with  slander  and  ridicule  in  every  corner  of 
the  world.  Yet  he  traded  his  dollars  and  his  daugh- 
ter for  the  first  good  title  that  came  along — and  who 
but  wondered  at  the  exceeding  courage  of  the 
man  I  .  .  . 

The  woman-worship  in  this  country,  which  is  a 
stock  source  of  wonder  to  Europeans,  began  with 
the  rise  of  large  fortunes  in  the  last  generation. 
About  the  same  time  that  the  American  got  hold  of 
"big  money,"  he  discovered  sex  in  a  finer  hedonistic 
sense  than  it  was  known  to  his  fathers.  It  suited 
his  vanity  also  to  discover  higher  intellectual  quali- 
ties in  the  weak  beings  who  were  to  show  off  his 
wealth.  So  his  pride  and  his  pleasure  went  to- 
gether, and  by  dint  of  both  he  set  up  the  grotesque 
adoration  of  women, — that  is  to  say,  of  mental  and 
physical  inferiority, — which  excites  the  derision  of 
Europe. 

That  is  a  strictly  true  but  unpoetical  statement  of 
the  genesis  of  the  American  Goddess  whom  Gibson 


1 62       AT   THE   SIGN   OF   THE   VAN 

has  crayoned  and  the  magazines  have  "featured" 
into  a  season  of  popularity.  She  was  always  a  sham 
and  an  unreality,  but  to  pretend  belief  in  her  is 
still  a  badge  of  the  social  elect  and  a  stigma  of  the 
class-conscious. 

Nor  God  nor  man  had  ever  previously  looked 
upon  anything  like  the  spectacle  of  the  American 
woman  in  the  pride  of  her  false  goddesship.  Eheu ! 
what  she  cost  us !  The  sacrifices  made  to  her  dis- 
eased vanity  and  restless  ambition,  the  fortunes 
bartered  blindly  away  for  worthless  gewgaws  of 
rank  and  title,  the  tragedy  and  disgrace  which  con- 
stantly attended  her  giddy  attempts  to  shine  and 
conquer  in  foreign  spheres, — are  not  these  things 
familiar  to  all  who  can  read  the  penny  prints  ?  Nay, 
they  are  so  staled  through  repetition  that  they  no 
longer  interest  us  or  challenge  the  spirit  of  satire. 

Yet  it  seems  a  pity  that  we  have  amongst  us  no 
Thackeray  capable  of  depicting  the  rise  and  fall  of 
the  American  Goddess  in  a  masterpiece  like  "Van- 
ity Fair."  The  time  is  ripe  for  him,  since,  for  all 
artistic  purposes,  her  epoch  may  be  regarded  as 
complete.  The  factitious  romance  with  which  she 
was  long  surrounded  by  sentimentalists  like  Bret 
Harte  has  been  rudely  torn  away,  exposing  the  scan- 
dal and  meanness  and  tragic  humiliation  behind. 
Nobody  believes  in  the  poor  Goddess  any  longer, 
and  she  is  about  to  return,  humbled  and  chastened, 
to  her  natural  status  as  an  average  woman  and  a 


THE    EXPATRIATES  163 

mother  of  children  to  average  men.  In  which  es- 
tate she  will  rediscover  her  happiness  and  her  proper 
use  in  the  world. 

Summing  up  our  amiable  madness,  we  see  that  to 
the  present  hour  it  has  resulted  chiefly  in  amusing 
the  cynicism  of  Europe ;  pouring  an  ocean  of  Amer- 
ican money  into  gilded  foreign  ratholes;  setting  up 
a  craze  of  rank-worship  and  snobbery  at  home;  cut- 
ting down  the  natural  birth-rate  and  popularizing 
that  polite  form  of  prostitution,  the  childless  mar- 
riage; multiplying  divorces  and  the  number  of  the 
connubially  unfit;  furthering  the  idleness,  dawdling 
and  dissipation  of  so-called  society  and  club  women; 
producing  a  breed  of  un- Americans ;  fostering  a  silly 
literature  unequaled  in  the  annals  of  publication; 
vastly  furthering  the  propagation  of  female  fools. 

Hail  our  American  Goddess  ere  she  passes!  We 
shall  not  look  upon  her  like  again. 


OUT    OF    THE     EAST 

If  the  recollection  of  a  cocktail — that  cold  amber 
serpent  with  a  ruby  at  its  heart — should  ever  sting 
thee  in  the  peace  of  the  cedars,  think  of  me  and  be 
wise.  Thou  art  now,  oh  my  beatified  brother,  some 
six  or  seven  thousand  miles  from  hell  (as  the  crow 
flies) — wouldst  thou  come  back  for  a  Manhattan? 

ALLAH  be  praised  who  giveth  and  taketh 
the  years,  'twas  in  December,  1904,  I  wrote 
these  lines  to   my  inestimable   friend   and 
brother,  Ameen  Rihani,  poet,  philosopher  and  mys- 
tic, at  that  time  resident  in  Lebanon  the  holy,  in 
the  land  of  Syria.    Need  I  recall  him  to  the  faithful 
readers  of  Papyrus  who  have  tasted  the  sweet  liba- 
tions of  his  Muse,  that  sometimes  have  the  bitter- 
ness of  things  over-sweet? 

Never  had  I  seen  my  brother  in  the  flesh,  though 
he  had  written  me  many  charming  letters  in  which 
the  gentle  melancholy  of  Amiel  was  blended  with 
the  lyric  scorn  of  Heine.  Yet  was  he  once  a  dweller 
in  Brooklyn  the  unblest,  and  the  thirsting  Pleiades 
of  Manhattan,  long  a  nursery  of  neglected  genius, 
knew  him  of  yore.  A  translation  of  Abul-Ala,  an 

164 


OUT    OF   THE    EAST  165 

Arabic  poet,  no  less  deserving  of  immortality  than 
he  of  Naishapur,  first  brought  him  into  my  ken. 
Thence  began  the  correspondence  alluded  to  which 
continued  long  after  Ameen  had  shaken  the  dust  of 
the  Occident  from  his  feet  and  set  up  his  tent  under 
the  cedars  of  Lebanon. 

Believe  me,  my  thoughts  were  anywhere  but  in 
Syria,  land  of  roses,  one  day  in  August  last,  when 
the  telephone  tinkled  and  a  musical,  exotic  voice 
saluted  me  with  these  fervid  greetings: 

"Mikhael !  it  is  I,  thy  friend  and  brother,  Ameen 
Rihani,  alive,  billah,  alive  ! — and  come  back  for  that 
Cocktail.  Wilt  hasten  and  have  it  with  me, 
Mikhael? — thou  wilt  also  see  a  pair  of  Black  Eyes 
that  are  worth  a  journey  from  Syria  to  behold. 
Come  quickly,  then,  O  my  brother — we  are  at  the 
caravansary  Al-Goddam  ...  I  mean  Algonquin." 

There  be  some  things  which  really  admit  of  no 
argument,  and  among  these  I  reckon  an  invitation  to 
drink  with  a  man  who  has  come  over  half  the 
world's  breadth  to  see  you.  I  consented  at  once 
to  the  Cocktail  and  also  to  dine  the  same  evening 
with  my  friend  and  the  pair  of  Black  Eyes. 

Eagerness  and  haste  bear  another  gloss  in  the 
East  and  are  quite  different  from  our  Western  no- 
tion of  the  things  signified.  The  Oriental  hurries 
neither  to  his  wedding  nor  his  execution,  if  he  can 
help  it.  This  attitude,  which  we  call  fatalism,  has 


1 66       AT  THE   SIGN   OF  THE   VAN 

its  charm;  also  its  inconveniences,  as  shall  be  nar- 
rated. 

I  had  begun  to  think  that  Ameen  had  rightly 
named  our  appointed  place  of  meeting  the  Al-God- 
dam,  so  long  was  he  in  making  an  appearance.  At 
last  he  came,  radiant,  with  arms  thrown  wide  and 
such  a  convincing  warmth  of  speech  and  manner  as 
no  ordinary  feeling  of  annoyance  could  resist.  A 
lithe,  medium-sized  man,  as  handsome  as  Daudet 
and,  as  I  thought,  much  resembling  him,  with  the 
like  extraordinary  tangle  of  dark  hair  that  seemed 
to  grow  out  from  itself,  a  suo  vigore,  without  refer- 
ence to  the  stem  or  head  beneath.  A  Syrian,  with 
the  dark  and  delicate  lineaments  of  a  race  never 
numbered  with  the  strong,  but  which  still  preserves 
the  distinction  of  thought;  akin  to  the  Greek  in 
subtlety  and  weakness,  to  the  Celt  in  enthusiasm  and 
inaction. 

Forthwith  we  ordered  the  Cocktail — "the  same, 
Mikhael,  that  you  wrote  about  in  your  talk-of-the- 
side."  Accordingly  we  made  it  a  Manhattan,  and 
Allah  of  his  inscrutableness  gave  us  a  speedy  desire 
for  another,  perhaps  one  more  after  that — Three 
is  a  sacred  number  in  the  hierology  of  the  East. 

Meantime  we  talked  like  lovers  reunited,  also  like 
poets  who  are  sure  yet  solicitous  of  each  other's 
admiration.  My  friend  had  come  back  to  New 
York  in  order  to  get  his  Great  Work  published,  one 
that  spanned  the  intellectual  consciousness  of  the 


OUT    OF    THE    EAST  167 

East  and  West.  I  was  planning  another  revival  of 
Papyrus,  on  whose  demise,  Ameen  assured  me,  there 
had  been  lamentation  in  Ramah,  and  tears  in  Beyrout 
and  Damascus.  Naturally  I  yearned  over  these  tid- 
ings— the  more  remote,  the  dearer  the  appreciation. 

All  this  took  time  (perhaps  there  was  another 
Cocktail,  I'm  not  sure) .  The  dinner  hour  was  pass- 
ing and  still  the  Black  Eyes  did  not  appear.  I  felt 
the  infraction  of  Oriental  decorum,  but  a  healthy 
appetite  would  not  be  silenced.  I  thereupon  said 
something  about  our  not  being  able  to  get  a  table  at 
the  restaurant  where  we  were  to  dine.  The  thing 
was  likely  enough.  Ameen  poured  forth  apologies. 
"A  thousand  pardons,  Mikhael,  I  will  telephone  the 
Gazelle  at  once.  She  is  down  town  and  does  not 
know  that  you  are  now  with  me  in  the  Al-Goddam. 
Billah,  but  she  will  be  the  rejoiceful  one  I"  And 
away  he  went. 

Hunger  gnawed  my  vitals,  but  I  almost  forgot  it 
when  Ameen  returned,  not  too  soon,  with  a  joyous 
light  in  his  eyes. 

"She  is  coming,  Mikhael,  on  the  wings  of  her 
desire — I  mean  a  taxicab.  Oh,  my  friend,  in  her 
you  will  behold  Syria  herself.  Shall  we  not  have 
another  Cocktail-of-the-side-talk  while  we  await 
her?".  .  . 

Syria  did  not  belie  her  advance  notices.  Her  eyes 
were  the  largest  and  blackest  ever  seen  outside  the 


1 68       AT  THE   SIGN   OF  THE   VAN 

Mahommedan  heaven — each  a  night  of  a  single 
star. 

"But  I'm  not  a  Syrian,"  she  said,  when  we  were 
at  length  cozily  seated  at  a  desirable  table,  not  too 
near  the  music.  "Richard  of  the  Quest  had  a  hap- 
pier inspiration — he  called  me  Arabia." 

I  raised  my  glass  to  the  more  fortunate  artist. 
"Let  me  call  you  Arabia  then;  from  such  a  source  it 
is  an  honor  to  borrow  a  verse  or  a  compliment." 

The  great  eyes  closed  and  opened,  making  mid- 
night and  noon.  A  slow  smile  gave  gracious  consent. 

At  this  point  Ameen,  stung  to  artistic  conscious- 
ness by  the  mention  of  the  English  writer,  demanded 
from  me  a  critical  estimate  of  the  latter's  poetry. 

"My  dear  Ameen,"  I  parried,  "speaking  of  the 
English  avatar  of  Hafiz,  I'm  not  sure  that  he  has 
ever  given  us  anything  finer  than  your  own  'Han- 
urn'!"  And  I  quoted: 

Hanum,  your  eyes  are  brighter  far 

Than  when  in  mine  they  swam  one  day; 
I  wager  every  moon  and  star 

The  tax  of  lustre  to  them  pay. 
And  those  who  dared  with  them  to  jest, 

Where  are  they  now,  those  lovers  slain, 
Who  whispered  dying  on  your  breast, — 

"O  Hanum,  shall  we  meet  again?" 

The  poet's  eyes  glistened  with  proud  joy  and 
Arabia  bent  upon  me  her  most  lustrous  smile  of  the 


OUT    OF    THE    EAST  169 

evening.  UO  my  friend  Mikhael,"  exclaimed 
Ameen,  "how  magnanimous  of  you  to  remember 
my  verses !  Dost  note  this  wondrous  thing,  dear 
one?"  he  said  in  a  half-aside  to  our  fair  companion. 
"Mikhael  prefers  the  Syrian  bulbul  to  the  English 
lark." 

I  blushed  a  little  at  the  ruse,  but  it  was  perfectly 
successful,  and  all's  fair  in  love  and  war  or  saving 
a  dinner  party.  By  a  neat  turn  I  had  secured  the 
happiness  of  three  persons  and  the  escape  of  two — 
Mr.  LeGallienne  and  myself. 

Did  you  ever  know  a  poet  to  be  satisfied  with  a 
single  quotation  from  his  Works,  either  in  his  own 
mouth  or  that  of  another?  If  you  did,  Allah  hath 
reserved  you  for  a  peculiar  destiny.  Certainly  he 
was  not  of  our  company  that  night.  When  a  little 
later  I  asked  Ameen  if  there  was  no  patriotic  party 
in  his  native  land,  no  Young  Syrian  aspiration  for 
freedom  such  as  had  but  lately  dethroned  the  Tyrant 
of  the  Bosphorus  and  kindled  a  too  quickly  languish- 
ing flame  among  his  subject  peoples,  he  rose  fully  in 
his  place,  and,  to  no  other  accompaniment  than  the 
flashing  of  storm-signals  in  the  eyes  of  his  Arabia, 
intoned  the  following  spirited  stanzas: 

O  Freedom,  in  thy  cause  I  fought, 

For  twenty  years  I  fought  in 
And  in  my  burning  bosom  nought 


i  ?o      AT   THE   SIGN   OF  THE   VAN 

But  worthless  trophies  now  remain. 
Yet  in  my  heart  I  hear  a  cry 

That  never  there  makes  vain  appeal: 
I  would  once  more  beneath  thy  sky 

Brandish  my  sharp  and  shining  steel! 

The  purest  love  I  give  away, 

The  bliss  of  it  I  set  at  nought; 
Again  I'm  on  my  wayward  way, 

Seeking  what  I  have  often  sought. 
My  wounded  hopes,  my  bleeding  ties 

No  peace  inglorious  e'er  shall  heal: 
I  would  once  more  beneath  thy  skies 

Brandish  my  sharp  and  shining  steel! 

The  waiters,  as  well  as  some  noisy  but  disinter- 
ested friends  of  liberty,  joined  in  the  fervid  applause 
which  these  stirring  lines  evoked.  The  poet  sat 
down,  pale  and  trembling,  but  with  no  abatement  of 
his  martial  air. 

I  now  perceived  that  the  hour  was  very  late  and 
yet  there  was  manifestly  nothing  to  do  but  move  on 
the  Turkish  oppressor.  The  inconveniences  of  such 
a  proceeding  seemed  less  to  me  at  that  moment  than 
the  patriotic  urgency  of  the  step. 

However,  I  put  the  matter  up  to  Arabia,  who  for 
some  time  had  been  gradually  taking  command  of 
our  forces.  In  a  manner  quite  inexplicable  she 
turned  us  from  our  warlike  purpose  and  steered  us 


OUT   OF   THE    EAST  171 

to  a  taxicab.     Admirable  Arabia ! — I  shall  remem- 
ber thy  wisdom  as  long  as  the  beauty  of  thine  eyes. 
Late  next  day  I  received  this  note  from  my  friend. 

"MlKHAEL: 

"Oh,  thou  damned  seductive  Irishman!  I  de- 
serve all  the  torments  of  Eblis — and  I  am  suffering 
them  all — for  having  trifled  with  that  cold  amber 
serpent  with  the  ruby  in  his  midst,  thy  Cocktail-of- 
the-side-talk.  He  is  now  coiled  about  my  vitals, 
and  yet,  son  of  misery  that  I  am,  I  have  a  horrible 
desire  to  swallow  more  of  him.  Tell  thine  erring 
friend  what  to  do  ere  Allah  blast  thee  for  a  tempter ! 
I  am  now  at  the  Al-Goddam  and  fear  that  the  Cock- 
tail may  attack  me  at  any  moment.  Or,  better  still, 
come  and  help  me  to  subdue  the  monster.  .  .  . 
Mikhael !  your  friendship  is  as  dear  to  me  as  a  cor- 
ner of  Al-Jannat  or  a  sunset  in  my  beloved  Syria, 
but  what  execrable  poetry  you  recited  last  night ! — 
was  it  your  own  or  LeG.'s?  And  what  Koran- 
cursed  nonsense  that  was  about  freeing  Ireland ! — it 
might  have  landed  us  all  in  Jefferson  Market. 
Never  mind,  I  forgive  you  that  and  all  else,  if  you 
will  but  come  to  me.  My  agonies  are  great,  but  I 
live,  billah,  I  live !  AMEEN." 


XI 

A     HUMBLE     LIFE 

THE  kindest,  gentlest  man  I  have  ever  known 
is  dead.  It  would  be  a  wrong  to  his 
memory  to  name  him  here,  for  such  vir- 
tues as  his  flourish  only  in  the  neglected,  unsought 
places  of  life,  and  to  drag  them  into  the  light  of 
publicity  were  a  kind  of  profanation.  Yet  it  causes 
me  a  pang  to  think  that  so  much  goodness  should  be 
withdrawn  from  the  world  and  no  sign  or  token  left 
thereof.  Perhaps  it  will  be  forgiven  me  if,  very 
simply  and  without  art,  I  jot  down  here  a  few  slight 
memories  of  what  seems  to  me,  in  spite  of  its  ob- 
scure and  humble  setting,  a  life  worthy  and  beau- 
tiful. But  there  is  no  story — no  hero:  let  those 
who  seek  such  close  the  page. 

He  was  born  into  a  large  family,  some  sixty  years 
ago,  in  Northern  New  York.  That  part  of  the 
country  was  wild  and  unsettled  then;  manners  were 
ruder,  life  was  harder  in  every  way,  and  stern  work 
was  necessary  to  keep  the  wolf  from  the  door. 

172 


A    HUMBLE    LIFE  173 

Probably  "work"  was  the  first  word  he  heard,  and 
it  may  well  have  been  the  last. 

He  was  the  smallest  and  frailest  of  a  half  dozen 
sons  (there  were  daughters,  too),  but  even  as  a 
child  he  had  "chores"  to  do,  and  thus  the  keynote 
of  his  life  of  constant  labor  was  set.  There  was  a 
little  schooling  in  his  early  years,  a  very  little  indeed, 
for  his  help  was  needed;  and,  besides,  the  family 
moved  about  a  good  deal.  The  father  was  an 
active,  industrious,  headstrong  man,  holding  to  his 
opinions  with  great  tenacity  and  singularly  undiplo- 
matic in  the  expression  of  them.  In  such  com- 
munities it  is  sometimes  advisable  for  a  man  of  this 
type  to  migrate,  if  he  cannot  win  his  neighbors  over 
to  his  own  way  of  thinking.  Old  John  (as  we  may 
call  the  father)  would  not  weaken  the  least  bit,  even 
when,  on  one  occasion,  during  a  heated  campaign, 
his  neighbors  proposed  to  string  him  up  as  a  violent 
and  irreclaimable  Whig.  But  presently  he  dug  up 
stakes  and  "lit  out,"  without  any  manner  of  com- 
pulsion, however; — you  know  how  such  things  ar- 
range themselves !  All  this  shifting  and  uncertainty 
naturally  set  young  John  back  in  his  book-learning, 
while  giving  him  more  to  do  than  was  strictly  neces- 
sary in  the  School  of  Hard  Knocks.  People  didn't 
much  consider  his  size  or  weakness,  and,  to  do  him 
justice,  he  would  have  felt  hurt  if  they  had.  You 
see,  his  spirit  was  full  size. 

Old  John  included  among  his  lighter  and  more 


174      AT  THE   SIGN   OF   THE   VAN 

amiable  traits  a  genuine  love  for  music — he  had  a 
capacity  in  this  way,  too,  which  never  got  him  into 
trouble  with  his  neighbors  and  may  well  have  pal- 
liated his  political  shortcomings.  Old  John  was, 
in  fact,  a  rattling  good  fiddler,  though  he  didn't  work 
at  it  as  a  trade,  mind  you;  and  he  was  in  frequent 
requisition  at  barn  dances  and  other  such  merry- 
makings. I  have  heard  young  John  tell,  with  a 
quiet  humor  characteristic  of  him  (when  he  himself 
was  somewhat  in  years),  how  once  he  went  with  his 
father  to  a  dance,  and  old  John  was  given  too  much 
apple  juice  and  turned  sick  while  playing  the  "Money 
Musk,"  and  was  forced  to  relieve  his  stomach  into 
a  very  tall  white  plug  hat  (the  pride  of  its  owner  and 
the  wonder  of  the  village)  which  had  been  placed 
near  him  for  safe-keeping  (the  fiddler  being  spared 
in  most  emergencies) .  Young  John  was  a  very  small 
shaver  at  the  time,  but  he  never  forgot  the  look  on 
the  man's  face  who  owned  the  plug  hat.  .  .  . 

Young  John,  by  the  way,  had  no  small  share  of 
his  father's  musical  knack:  he  became  in  time  a 
capable  musician,  transmitting  the  talent  in  turn  to 
some  of  his  children.  I  have  seen  few  pleasanter 
sights  than  young  John  playing  a  duet  with  his 
daughter;  bass-viol  and  violin.  As  a  boy  myself  I 
loved  to  watch  him  play  on  the  huge  fiddle,  which 
overtopped  him  several  inches;  and  it  seemed  to  me 
that  he  was  proportionately  important  in  the  or- 


A    HUMBLE    LIFE  175 

chestra.  He  never  made  any  claims  of  that  sort 
himself. 

To  resume.  Old  John  was  by  fits  and  starts 
farmer,  carpenter,  and  canal  boatman.  The  Erie 
Canal  was  then  in  its  heyday  and  good  money  was 
made  freighting  stuff  along  the  great  waterway.  Old 
John  finally  took  to  "boating  it"  regularly:  he 
owned  his  boat,  which  was  manned  by  three  or  four 
of  his  boys.  A  profitable  season  made  things  easier 
in  the  long  winter  following.  This  was  not  a  bad 
time  to  look  back  upon,  with  the  boys  and  girls  all 
singing  and  playing  and  old  John  occasionally  un- 
bending from  political  discussion  to  take  a  hand  in 
the  revels.  There  was  much  hearty  affection  in  this 
plain  American  family,  as  I  knew  from  the  moisture 
that  often  came  to  young  John's  blue  eyes  in  telling 
of  those  far-off  times. 

So  young  John,  barely  in  his  teens  and  very  small 
for  his  age,  drove  a  mule-team  on  the  canal  towpath 
long  days  and  longer  nights,  from  Buffalo  to  New 
York  and  back  again.  Hearing  him  tell  of  this  as 
a  boy  myself,  I  used  to  envy  him  the  delight  and 
adventure  of  the  experience. 

There  was  the  winding  canal  brightly  flowing  in 
the  sun,  yet  full  of  dark  and  whispering  mystery  in 
the  long  night  watches;  and  there  was  the  silver 
stream  of  the  Mohawk  dotted  with  no  end  of  green 
islets,  keeping  it  company  for  many  a  mile  of  its 
wayfaring.  What  beauty  in  the  dawns,  what  sol- 


I76       AT  THE   SIGN   OF  THE   VAN 

emn  splendor  in  the  sunsets,  which  even  a  very  small 
boy,  often  tired  and  hungry,  would  not  fail  to  mark 
and  remember!  (Young  John  was  never  to  go  far 
from  that  quiet  river — it  was  to  become,  in  very 
truth,  part  of  his  life.) 

There  were  the  Sixteen  Locks  with  their  peril  and 
excitement,  the  crashing  oaths  of  the  bargemen,  the 
fierce  answering  shouts  of  the  locktenders,  especially 
when  there  was,  as  often,  bitter  strife  among  the 
boats  waiting  to  be  locked  through;  with  now  and 
then  a  desperate  battle,  resulting  sometimes  in 
broken  heads,  but  mainly  an  affair  of  noise  and  up- 
roar; enough  to  make  a  boy's  heart  leap  out  of  him 
for  mingled  fear  and  delight.  There  was  the  dark 
and  bloody  ground  of  West  Troy,  memorable  for 
many  a  scrimmage  and  angry  dispute  at  the  "weigh- 
lock"  (the  business  of  canaling  being  one  impossible 
to  carry  on  without  rage  and  profanity).  Then 
there  was  the  Nine-mile  level — think  of  that  to  brag 
of  to  stay-at-home  boys!  And  the  Wilderness, 
where,  in  the  long  night  tricks,  your  heart  often 
stood  still  at  some  strange  noise  or  murmur,  as  of 
someone  or  some  thing  just  behind  your  back,  and 
you  were  mighty  glad  to  have  your  big  brother  yell 
at  you  from  the  helm — "Johnny! — go  on  with  your 
line,"  adding,  perhaps,  other  cheerful  expletives. 
And,  best  of  all,  there  was  the  happy,  idle  cruise 
behind  a  dancing  tug  from  Albany  down  the  wide 


A    HUMBLE    LIFE  177 

Hudson,  to  that  whole  world  of  wonder,  the  great 
city  of  New  York. 

So  I  envied  young  John  when  he  told  us  his  ad- 
ventures, and  I  was  much  older  ere  I  understood 
how  hard  the  life  must  have  been  to  him,  a  frail 
young  lad,  with  its  privations  and  real  dangers. 
But  I  don't  remember  that  he  ever  complained,  as 
well  he  might.  Many  a  time,  while  driving  half- 
asleep  at  night,  his  team  would  walk  into  the  canal, 
taking  him  along  with  them.  Then  a  wild  scramble 
for  life  while  the  crew,  paying  very  scant  atten- 
tion to  him,  would  exert  themselves  to  save  the 
threshing,  floundering  animals.  There  were  nights 
when  this  happened  not  once  but  twice — and  he  had 
not  even  time  to  change  his  wet  clothes. 

I  loved  as  a  boy  to  hear  young  John  tell  of  these 
and  similar  his  adventures  on  the  tumultuous, 
though  not  exactly  trackless,  Erie  Canal.  Chiefly 
because  they  were  the  only  adventures  of  the  story- 
book kind  that  his  life  was  to  know.  There  re- 
mained for  him  only  the  life-long  adventure  of  hard 
work  and  honest  poverty. 

Old  John  gave  up  boating  in  course  of  time  and 
went  on  a  long  cruise  by  himself,  whence  he  sent 
back  no  account  of  lock-tolls  or  other  charges. 
Young  John  thereupon  left  the  canal,  but  stayed 
very  near  the  river,  which  he  had  learned  to  re- 
gard as  a  friend  during  many  solemn  morning  and 
evening  hours.  "I  will  never  desert  you,  John,"  it 


178       AT  THE   SIGN   OF  THE   VAN 

seemed  to  say,  "though  the  time  will  come  when  you 
will  leave  me,  like  your  father  before  you." 

So  young  John  married  and  settled  down  on  the 
bank  of  this  friendly  river,  which  thence  watched  his 
labors  for  many  years  as  once  it  watched  and  shared 
his  boyish  journeyings.  Here  children  came  to  him 
and  a  full  portion  of  trial  and  trouble  and  sorrow. 
But  he  never  raised  a  child  gentler  at  heart  than 
himself,  and,  like  all  truly  good  men,  he  never  lost 
his  own  heart  of  youth.  Poor  he  remained  to  the 
end,  like  the  Gentlest  and  Greatest  One  ever  born 
on  this  earth,  whom  he  humbly  served  as  his  Master 
and  Saviour.  But,  though  I  have  sat  at  rich  men's 
feasts,  I  would  rather  have  had  a  smile  and  a  crust 
from  him  than  the  hospitality  of  kings.  And  I  like 
to  recall  that  he  became  the  .head  of  his  poor  table 
like  a  Prince  at  his  board.  Toward  the  last  he  bent 
sorely  under  the  harsh  burden  of  life;  but  his  old 
friend,  the  river,  never  mistook  the  young  John  of 
past  years. 

Only  the  other  day  I  stood  by  his  coffin,  touched 
his  hand  that  had  done  so  much  kindness,  and 
looked  upon  his  calm  face.  And  it  seemed  that, 
standing  there,  I  was  given  grace  to  read  anew,  as 
never  before,  the  old,  old  Lesson  of  Death.  For  it 
suddenly  came  to  me  that  this  humble  man,  whom  I 
have  not  even  named,  needed  no  pity  from  me  or 
any  other,  but  was  enviable  alike  in  his  life  and  in 


A   HUMBLE    LIFE  179 

his  death;  being  in  truth  one  of  that  unknown,  un- 
honored  host  of  laborers  and  sufferers,  the  true  and 
very  salt  of  the  earth,  by  whom  humanity  is  eter- 
nally redeemed,  and  in  whose  toil  and  tears  Christ 
is  justified.  .  .  . 

Raising  my  eyes  to  the  open  window,  I  saw  the 
river  a  little  distance  beyond,  flowing  waveless  and 
serene,  a  path  of  glory  under  the  setting  sun. 


XII 

THE     POET    AS     HOST 

WHAT  is  so  charming  as  the  hospitality  of 
poets,  and  so  rare,  in  the  best  sense? 
Among  the  blessings  of  a  life  none  too 
pleasantly  cast  or  richly  favored,  I  rate  this  very 
high  indeed.  To  break  bread  with  and  enjoy  the 
conversation  of  a  man  of  genius,  and  at  his  proper 
expense  (I  say  it  sans  malice — the  Poet  and  the  Price 
are  not  always  in  fortunate  conjunction) — is  surely 
an  enviable  privilege.  And  if  the  poet  can  take  a 
little  wine,  say  a  mild  Chablis  or  Pontet  Canet, 
without  being  moved  to  recite  too  many  of  his  best 
pieces,  why,  I  am  not  the  man  to  urge  puritanical 
objection.  To  be  candid,  I  should  not  fancy  the 
company  of  a  cold  sober  poet.  In  truth  a  dry  or 
water-drinking  poet,  besides  being  a  contradiction  in 
terms  (you  know  Horace's  opinion  of  the  genus),  is 
very  ill  at  such  amenities,  and  he  becomes  intolerable 
when,  literally  in  cold  blood,  he,  at  his  own  invita- 
tion, insists  upon  reading  copiously  from  his  own 
Works.  This  is  ten-fold  worse  when  he  offers 
you  nothing  to  drink  yourself — I  have  had  one  or 

180 


THE    POET   AS    HOST  181 

two  such  experiences  and  they  have  made  me  more 
wary  in  selecting  my  poet.  It  is  quite  the  nearest 
thing  to  Purgatory  that  I  have  had  a  taste  of. 

There  is,  to  be  sure,  a  prevalent  notion  that  poets 
are  pretty  dull  fellows,  outside  their  books,  and  gen- 
erally fit  only  for  the  admiration  of  polite  seminaries 
of  the  prunes  and  prism  order.  It  is  held  that  only 
now  and  then  a  rara  avis  appears  like  Dick  Sheri- 
dan, whose  talk  made  men  tear  up  the  I.  O.  U.'s  he 
had  given  them.  Or  Tom  Moore,  of  whom  Byron 
said  that  he  was  the  only  poet  known  to  him  whose 
conversation  equaled  his  writings.  Or  Oscar  Wilde, 
whose  brilliancy  as  a  talker  was  so  phenomenal  that 
he  was  actually  blamed  for  giving  his  genius  to  his 
conversation  and  only  his  talent  to  his  literary  work. 

Against  this  I  must  beg  leave  to  set  my  own  ex- 
perience. I  have  never  known  a  true  poet, — a  true 
one,  mind  you, — who  disappointed  me  in  this  re- 
spect: for  a  true  poet  may  be  eloquent  in  saying 
little  or  nothing,  or  merely  in  the  fashion  of  taking 
his  drink.  He  might  not  make  any  pretence  to  be 
a  talker  (like  the  sententious  and  reticent  yet  power- 
breathing  B C ) ,  nor  attempt  flight  or 

epigram  in  a  long  evening;  yet  you  would  not  there- 
fore mistake  your  man,  and  you  would  not  the  less 
feel  yourself  in  the  company  of  mind.  This  is  a 
different  thing  to  the  silence  of  stupidity. 

After  all,  only  a  very  simple  or  sophisticated  per- 
son would  expect  a  poet  to  talk  literally  as  he  writes, 


1 82      AT  THE   SIGN   OF   THE   VAN 

and  few  societies  would  endure  him.  Even  poets 
themselves  would  not  put  up  with  such  a  nuisance. 
Fancy  what  Lamb  would  have  said  to  such  cox- 
combry— he  that  barely  suffered  the  sublime  mean- 
derings  of  Coleridge.  "Come,  damn  it,  Tom,"  said 
the  profane  Byron  to  the  author  of  "Lalla  Rookh," 
— "pass  the  Rhenish,  and  don't  talk  poetry!"  .  .  . 

Pardon  the  slight  excursus.  I  am  to  speak  of  the 
hospitality  of  poets  rather  than  of  their  conversa- 
tion. 

Comes  before  me  the  dark  yet  delicate  visage  of 
Ameen,  the  poet  of  Syria,  well  and  kindly  known  to 
the  faithful  readers  of  Papyrus.  Even  as  I  trace 
these  lines  he  is  passing  the  Pillars  of  Hercules, 
homeward  bound  to  his  beloved  and  lovely  Lebanon. 
Hail,  Ameen! — Don't  you  see  him  standing  at  the 
rail,  wearing  a  caftan,  smiling  gravely  and  waving 
composedly  at  me?  .  .  .  Ship  that  bearest  Virgil 
to  the  Grecian  shore,  see  that  thou  bring  safe  back 
to  me  him  who  is  the  half  of  my  soul — anima  di- 
midium  me  a! — 

Allah  forgive  me  this  wandering  screed.  Well, 
to  resume.  During  a  year  that  Ameen  sojourned  with 
us  in  Gotham  (arranging  for  the  publication  of  his 
great  work  which  is  to  bring  into  poetic  synthesis  the 
East  and  West — I  am  not  so  sure  what  that  means, 
but  all  is  clear  with  God) — it  chanced  to  me  now 
and  then,  in  the  way  of  our  friendship,  to  offer  him 
a  little  dinner  a  deux,  a  theatre  or  other  simple  treat. 


THE    POET   AS   HOST  183 

On  which  occasion  his  cordial  compliments,  his  grave 
and  noble  appreciation  heightened  by  his  exotic,  pic- 
turesque demeanor,  which  might  have  become  a 
Prince  in  some  Eastern  tale,  quite  abashed  me. 
Often  he  would  cry — "Oh,  my  friend  Mikhael!" — 
he  always  so  pronounced  my  name,  which  troubled 
the  waiters  to  identify  me  also  as  a  Syrian  of  the 
hill  tribes — "if  you  would  come  out  to  my  Syria  I 
would  show  you  such  hospitality  as  you  could  not 
dream  of  in  this  soulless  city  of  millionaires.  Prom- 
ise me  that  you  will  come  soon." 

It  was  useless  to  argue  with  him  that  one  might 
not  catch  a  steamer  for  Beyrout  as  readily  as  a 
cable-car  for  Brooklyn  the  unblest.  In  the  Oriental 
mind  desire  and  fulfilment  are  one;  obstacles  of  any 
sort,  moral  or  material,  do  not  count  in  thought  as 
with  us.  Ameen  waved  aside  with  swift,  nervous 
hands  all  that  I  could  urge  against  returning  with 
him  to  Syria  and  settling  myself  comfortably  on  the 
vine-clad  slopes  of  Lebanon,  in  the  peace  of  the 
cedars,  with  a  sherbet  and  a  pair  of  Black  Eyes. 

"Money!"  he  would  exclaim.  "What  shall  you 
want  with  money?  What  is  it  doing  for  you  here 
in  this  Gehenna  of  a  New  York?  Come,  my  friend, 
come  out  to  the  East  where  you  can  live  for  your 
soul  all  the  time,  instead  of,  as  here,  only  a  moment 
now  and  then." 

In  this  strain  my  eloquent  friend  filled  many  hours 
with  music  and  temptation.  It  looked  rather  good 


1 84       AT   THE   SIGN   OF   THE   VAN 

to  me  at  that,  especially  when  we  had  dined  a  bit 
late  at  Mouquin's  and  certain  harsh  practical  diffi- 
culties seemed  to  curl  up  and  vanish  in  the  scented 
smoke  of  Ameen's  Turkish  cigarette.  The  further 
economic  reason  that  in  Syria  people  present  their 
bills  only  once  a  year,  with  many  humble  apologies, 
and  never  think  of  sueing  them  if  unpaid,  but  ex- 
cuse themselves  for  having  given  trouble, — appealed 
to  me  with  cogent  force.  But  I  weakened  at  the 
last  moment,  and  Ameen  sailed  alone  with  the  same 
fine  composure  and  fatalistic  content  that  he  would 
have  shown  had  I  elected  to  go  with  him.  Inscrut- 
able is  the  soul  of  the  East! 

My  brother  is  gone,  he  of  the  burning  eyes,  the 
poetic  soul,  the  rich  mirth  and  tender  melancholy; 
but  I  know  that  a  welcome  awaits  me  in  the  immemo- 
rial land  of  Syria.  And  a  welcome  in  Syria,  where 
is  the  unspoiled  heart  of  the  race  as  only  Allah  may 
remember  it, — is  it  not  a  richer  banquet  for  the 
soul  than  a  dinner  of  many  courses  in  Manhattan? 

Then  there  is  Richard  of  the  Quest  who  looks  the 
poet  better  than  any  Englishman  since  Shelley,  and 
who  "hath  witched  the  world,"  especially  the  femi- 
nine part  of  it,  no  less  with  his  verse  than  with  his 
agreeable  personality.  Who  does  not  love  Richard 
that  has  ever  really  felt  the  poet  in  the  man?  And 
among  the  women,  who  has  not  loved  him,  one 
might  say,  without  the  least  hint  of  scandal? 


THE    POET   AS   HOST  185 

How  proud  was  I  when  Richard  urged  me,  no 
great  while  ago,  to  come  and  spend  a  few  days  with 
him  on  his  farm.  And  not  the  first  time,  either. 
Oh,  that  Connecticut  farm!  How  I  used  to  envy 
Richard  the  possession  of  it — such  an  ideal  home 
for  a  poet!  It  was  not  really  possession,  in  a  strict 
legal  sense,  perhaps  (the  purchase  price  was  some 
nine  thousand  dollars,  and  Richard  had  paid  a  hun- 
dred or  so  thereon  in  the  course  of  a  protracted 
tenancy) — but  what  did  that  matter?  Richard  al- 
ways spoke  of  it  with  a  warmth  of  feeling  and  an 
assurance  of  ownership  beyond  legal  title-deeds  that 
touched  one  deeply  and  gave  one  a  comfortable  sense 
in  his  acquaintance — it  is  but  human  to  claim  some- 
thing in  the  possessions  of  our  friends.  I  was  not 
so  poor  when  Richard  had  talked  a  little  about  his 
farm.  I  was  not  .so  much  the  fearful  prisoner  of 
routine  when  he  had  made  me  partaker  of  his 
tetherless  liberty.  ,  .  . 

There  is  something  elusive  as  well  as  charming  in 
the  hospitality  of  poets.  .  .  .  Perhaps  that  is  the 
real  charm  of  it.  I  never  saw  Richard's  farm,  save 
with  the  mind's  eye,  because,  .curiously  enough,  he 
never  was  quite  ready  for  me  when  my  uncertain 
liberties  coincided  with  my  desire  to  visit  him.  But 
on  such  occasions  he  would  send  me  a  letter,  in  the 
only  gifted  handwriting  I  have  ever  seen,  a  real 
effect  of  genius, — so  cordial  and  kindly  in  regret, 


1 86       AT  THE   SIGN   OF   THE   VAN 

that  my  disappointment  would  be  changed  into  a 
positive  pleasure.  Finally,  when  all  the  unities  on 
both  sides  seemed  to  conspire  for  our  meeting,  word 
came  that  Richard  had  unluckily  lost  the  farm — I 
mean  the  ownership  thereof;  through  some  perverse 
legal  technicality,  a  mortgage  or  foreclosure  or 
something  like  that — as  if  poets  should  have  any- 
thing to  do  with  such  monsters!  And  so  it  must 
now  take  its  place  with  those  Things  that  Never 
Were,  dream-treasure  of  which  at  least  no  picking 
lawyer  shall  ever  despoil  us.  I  who  never  saw 
Richard's  farm  shall  think  of  it  henceforth  with 
something  of  the  glory  and  pathos  of  Carcassonne. 

I  have  not  been  to  Richard's  farm: 

Ah,  'tis  a  thought  too  keen  with  woe, 
Now  that  the  smiling  days  are  past 

When  yet  I  might  but  did  not  go; — 
Nor  why  I  lingered  may  I  know, 

Since  all  the  prospect  could  but  charm; 
But,  summer  sun  or  winter  snow, 

I  have  not  been  to  Richard's  farm. 

For  oft  he  pressed  me,  gracious,  bland, 
To  come  and  taste  his  Sabine  fare, 

All  in  a  coign  of  Yankee-land ! 

'Mid  sylvan  peace  and  purest  air. 
There  all  his  hac  in  votis  were, 
A  sight  the  Heavens  to  disarm: 


THE    POET   AS   HOST 

Alack  the  thought  that  brings  despair — 
I  have  not  been  to  Richard's  farm. 

Yet  strange  how  oft,  with  full  intent, 

I  aimed  to  be  kind  Richard's  guest, 
And  once,  I  mind  me,  almost  went, 

Yea,  gaily  fared  in  pilgrim  vest 
To  take  a  train  that,  swift  addressed, 

Should  speed  me  thither,  sans  alarm. 
I  met  a  man! — God  knows  the  rest: 

I  did  not  get  to  Richard's  farm. 

"But  many  other  farms  there  be 

(So  runs  the  gossip's  soothing  tale), 
"With  smiling  field  and  sunny  lea, 

"And  harvests  lush  that  never  fail, 
"And  happy  flights  of  grouse  and  quail — " 

I  say  me  not  the  gossip  harm, 
(Quoth  he)  yet  shall  I  cease  my  wail? — 

I  have  not  been  to  Richard's  farm. 

Now  woe  is  me,  the  chance  is  gone, 

(He  saith)  a  chance  ne'er  to  return: 
I  feel  mine  age  slow  creeping  on, 

And  journeys  that  my  youth  would  spurn 
Now  daunt  me  sore — yea,  this  to  learn 

It  fills  my  breast  with  sorrow's  barm, 
The  while  the  tears  my  cheeks  do  burn — 

I  have  not  been  to  Richard's  farm. 


1 88       AT  THE   SIGN   OF  THE  VAN 

Too  late !  too  late ! — where  once  the  bard 

With  hyacinthine  ringlets  sate, 
A  man  of  dollars,  loud  and  hard, 

Now  giveth  rule  and  holdeth  state. 
Is  this  a  thing  to  make  elate 

A  breast  that  feels  the  Muse's  charm? 
Blow,  winds  of  Heaven,  and  me  berate  I — 

I  have  not  been  to  Richard's  farm. 


XIII 

OLD     MEN     FOR     LOVE 

Love  and  Death  once  ceased  their  strife 
At  the  Tavern  of  Man's  Life. 
Called  for  wine  and  threw — alas! — 
Each  his  quiver  on  the  grass. 
When  the  bout  was  o'er,  they  found 

Mingled  arrows  strewed  the  ground. 
*          *          *          * 

Thus  it  was  they  wrought  our  woe 

At  the  Tavern  long  ago. 

Tell  me,  do  our  masters  know, 

Loosing  blindly  as  they  fly, 

Old  men  love  while  young  men  die? 

KIPLING. 

WHETHER  the  poet  has  fabled  truly  or 
not, — whether  it  be  because  young  men 
die,  it  is  very  certain  that  old  men  love. 
And  they  seem  to  have  the  preference. 

So  at  least  you  must  conclude  from  even  a  casual 
review  of  the  night-life  of  New  York.  At  all  the 
swell  cafes  where  the  sexes  meet  for  the  pleasant 

189 


1 90      AT  THE   SIGN   OF   THE   VAN 

business  of  guzzling  and  gorging,  the  call  is  obvi- 
ously for  old  or  elderly  men — and  young  women. 
An  unsophisticated  looker-on  would  suppose  any  but 
the  true  relationship  between  all  these  gray  and 
blonde  or  brunette  heads  so  snugly  tete-a-tete  under 
the  twinkling  lusters,  with  that  before  them  which 
stimulates  appetite  and  enjoyment  in  persons  of  all 
ages.  The  seasoned  New  Yorker  looks  on  it  as  a 
matter  of  course  and  seldom  ascribes  a  paternal  or 
avuncular  or  even  a  marital  relation  to  the  gray- 
haired  gallant. 

Papas  are  not  so  flatteringly  attentive,  uncles  not 
so  affectionately  devoted,  husbands  not  so  lover-like 
and  languishing.  Oh,  no !  and  persons  of  ill-assorted 
ages  in  legal  or  family  bonds  do  not  have  such  a 
good  time  together. 

After  money-getting,  the  favorite  occupations  of 
the  typical  New  Yorker  are  guzzling  and  woman- 
ing.  Hence  comes  it  that  the  cafe,  diminishing  in 
glory  from  the  tawdry  gorgeousness  of  Sherry's  or 
the  Astoria  down  to  the  furtive  low-browed  dives 
of  the  Bowery  and  the  East  Side,  plays  so  important 
a  part  in  the  night-life  of  the  city.  Here  the  streams 
of  incense  arise  to  the  twin  divinities  of  Booze  and 
Flesh.  Here  the  Belly-God  is  worshipped  unashamed 
and  according  to  the  full  rubric.  Here  the  riotous 
appetites  are  whipped  to  their  utmost  pitch  and 
aphrodisiacs  are  found  for  waning  or  impotent  sen- 
suality. Said  not  Ferrero  that  Tiberius  would  be 


OLD    MEN    FOR   LOVE  191 

shocked  in  his  simple  vices  by  the  luxury  and  licen- 
tiousness of  New  York?  .  .  . 

Oh,  for  a  Hogarth's  pencil  to  depict  a  typical 
New  York  crowd  under  the  sway  of  the  all-conquer- 
ing Venus !  Here  are  the  lovely,  smiling  Lesbians, 
priestesses  of  pleasure,  from  whose  embraces  with 
men  result  the  lurid  tragedies  and  feculent  romances 
of  the  Yellow  Press;  and  here  sometimes  are  to  be 
seen  virtuous  wives  madly  emulous  of  their  forbid- 
den charms.  Here  are  the  young  and  the  middle- 
aged  of  both  sexes,  with  many  a  hoary  Silenus,  pay- 
ing homage  to  that  Image  of  Pleasure  which  has 
seduced  the  race  from  the  beginning.  O  Venus, 
reglna  Cnidi  Paphiquef  O  great  Bacchus!  O  most 
potent  Priapus !  not  fallen  is  your  ancient  worship, 
though  the  vine-clad  altars  and  the  phallic  emblems 
were  long  since  taken  away.  Here  are  you  adored 
as  wildly  as  ever  in  the  past  by  votaries  who  have 
never  heard  your  charming  Greek  names.  .  .  . 

Then,  you  say,  these  old  men  and  young  women 

are  all ?  Pshaw,  let's  not  bother  what  they  are, 

except  that  they  are — having  a  good  time  1  This  is 
New  York,  where  people  mind  their  own  business, 
or  would  better.  See  I 

Certainly  these  highly  fed,  well  groomed  oldsters 
seem  to  know  the  game,  and  if  you  watch  them  a 
while  you  will  wonder  less  at  the  strange  preference 
of  their  fair  companions.  Do  not  old  men  beat 
young  men  at  most  games  of  patience  and  stratagem 


i92      AT  THE   SIGN  OF  THE   VAN 

and  cunning?  And  is  not  love  preeminently  such  a 
game  ?  Tut,  tut !  these  fair  young  things  know  quite 
well  what  they  are  about.  They  are  not  so  uncal- 
culating  as  they  look,  not  by  a  good  half.  In  truth 
there  is  a  shrewd  purpose  behind  their  own  play. 
The  old  lover  is  gentle  and  kind  and  indulgent; 
above  all,  generous.  There  may  be  a  trifle  too  much 
gold  in  his  teeth  and  too  little  hair  on  his  head. 
That  falsetto  crack  in  his  laugh,  too,  jars  on  one, 
like  certain  effects  of  light  on  his  profile  or  the 
turkey-gobbler  movement  in  his  stringy  neck.  But 
he  has  the  prestige  and  the  experience  of  a  hundred 
conquests;  and  he  never  hurries  you  with  the  rough 
impetuosity  of  youth;  and  he's  really  splendid  com- 
pany, though  his  talk  is  a  little  boresome;  and 
though  an  old  fool,  of  course,  he's  not  nearly  so 
exacting  as  a  young  fool  would  be — and,  in  short, 
he  is  IT  (Newyorkese  for  comme  il  faut). 

You  remark  that  the  young  women  seem  proud 
of  their  elderly  cavaliers  and  carry  themselves  with 
a  more  pronounced  air  of  assurance  than  if  they 
were  companioned  by  younger  men.  Yes,  they  seem 
palpably  more  sure  of  themselves — of  their  charm 
and  their  power.  Is  this  perhaps  the  true  under- 
lying reason  of  their  preference  for  lovers  or 
"friends"  who  might  be  their  fathers? — even  grand- 
fathers are  not  out  of  the  reckoning.  Woman's 
vanity  may  well  be  at  the  bottom  of  this  as  of  other 


OLD    MEN    FOR    LOVE  193 

anomalies.  Age  is  (of  course)  a  potent  inspirer  of 
confidence. 

So  much  for  the  psychology  of  those  who  go 
down  to  fish  and  be  fished  for  in  cafes,  where  the 
Belly-God  and  other  divinities  of  the  flesh  are 
frankly  worshipped.  But  their  affair  is  not  a  com- 
plex matter — the  problem  really  sounds  profounder 
depths  of  human  nature  than  are  to  be  studied  in 
this  gay  world  of  light  and  sensuality  and  pleasure. 
It  is  one  that  radically  marks  the  difference  between 
the  sexes.  Since  the  morning  of  time  young  women 
have  freely  given  themselves  to  old  men ;  young  men 
have  rarely  given  themselves  to  old  women.  We 
revolt  at  the  fact,  as  we  revolt  at  that  other  fact, 
equally  shocking  and  indisputable,  that  modesty  is 
much  less  native  to  women  than  we  pretend  to  be- 
lieve by  a  useful  social  convention.  Still  both  facts 
remain  to  set  us  hunting  occasionally  for  reasons 
that  shall  satisfy  inquiring  or  unsophisticated  youth. 

Fogazzaro,  the  Italian  novelist,  in  his  book,  "The 
Saint,"  seeks  to  make  out  that  certain  old  men 
exert  a  mystical  attraction  upon  young  women,  and 
there  are  surely  instances  a-plenty  in  both  sacred  and 
profane  history  to  support  his  theory.  However, 
the  mystical  attraction  with  which  the  world  is  gen- 
erally familiar  in  such  cases  usually  takes  the  form 
of  what  is  vulgarly  called  cash.  Lacking  that,  the 
old  man  has  the  hardest  kind  of  a  game  to  play, 
and  the  instances  in  which  he  wins  out  are  too  few 


194       AT  THE   SIGN   OF  THE   VAN 

to  be  counted.  But  he  commonly  has  the  money, 
by  virtue  of  his  age  and  wisdom;  and  ever  since  that 
gay  old  trifler  Jupiter  appeared  to  a  pleasing  young 
woman  in  a  shower  of  gold,  this  form  of  temptation 
has  proven  irresistible  to  the  sex.  So  long,  then,  as 
beauty  deigns  to  dollars  this  apparent  perversion  of 
nature  will  continue  and  the  Poet's  mournful  refrain 
will  hold  true — 

"Old  men  love  while  young  men  die!" 


XIV 

BABYLON 

In  Babylon,  in  Babylon, 
The  tides  of  love  and  laughter  run 
Increasing  aye  from  sun  to  sun; 
And  never  looks  the  moon  upon 
A  night  that  has  nor  feast  nor  fun 
In  Babylon. 

In  Babylon,  in  Babylon 
Astarte  leaves  no  web  unspun, 
Nor  may  the  coldest-hearted  shun 
The  rites  that  leave  the  maid  undone. 
Of  virgins  stale  there's  ne'er  a  one 
In  Babylon. 

In  Babylon  they  give  the  kiss 
(A  fashion  of  Semiramis) 
By  touching  tongue  to  tongue — a  bliss 
You  never  dreamed,  the  like  o'  this ! 
And  other  sweets  lack  not,  I  wis, 
In  Babylon. 

Assyrian  Ballads. 

195 


196      AT  THE   SIGN   OF   THE   VAN 

WELL,  it  must  have  been  a  gay  old  town, 
that  same  Babylon,  and  I  have  always 
sympathized  with  the  modest  wish  of 
HeinricH  Heine,  who  avowed  that  he  would  have 
liked  to  run  over  there  some  fine  day  and  see  the 
doings.  Though  one  of  the  Chosen  People  himself, 
Heinrich  here  spoke  without  prejudice.  The  Jews, 
as  you  are  doubtless  aware,  have  no  special  cause 
to  regret  Babylon,  since  they  were  long  captives 
there  and  made  no  moneys  to  speak  of.  But  it  is 
known  that  many  of  them  yielded  to  the  pleasure- 
loving  atmosphere  of  the  place,  forgot  their  stern 
Jehovah — who  had  perhaps  too  much  Ego  in  his 
cosmos  for  daily  consumption — and,  as  their  proph- 
ets were  wont  chastely  to  express  it,  "went  whoring 
after  strange  gods,"  not  to  mention  the  demure  little 
women  of  Babylon.  By  this  no  doubt  was  meant 
the  pursuit  of  those  diversions  of  the  flesh  to  which 
the  people  of  the  City  of  Baal  were  notoriously 
given. 

The  prophet  Jeremiah  (who  had  marked  lean- 
ings toward  Comstockery)  was  especially  severe 
upon  Babylon  and  spared  not  of  his  wrath  toward 
such  Jews  as  allowed  themselves  to  be  seduced  by 
her  soft  pleasures.  He  wrote  somewhat  copiously 
on  the  subject,  being  charged  to  deliver  the  mind 
of  Jehovah  as  well  as  his  own.  However,  they  went 
on  having  a  good  time  in  Babylon,  with  masked 
balls,  tango  dances,  petits  soupers,  bridge  parties, 


BABYLON  197 

etc.,  every  night.  Then  the  heart  of  the  prophet 
Jeremiah  grew  very  bitter  within  him  and  he  pre- 
pared a  terrible  revenge  against  the  Wicked  City, 
to  wit:  he  carefully  revised  his  Book  against  Baby- 
lon, added  a  few  choice  anathemas  thereto,  and,  giv- 
ing it  to  his  servant  Seraiah,  instructed  him  to  be- 
take himself  unto  the  City  and  there  cast  it  into 
the  waters  of  the  Euphrates.  Which  Seraiah  did 
with  all  diligence  and  faith.  Strange  to  relate, 
nothing  particular  happened  thereafter — and  at 
Babylon  they  went  on  tangoing,  feasting,  loving, 
playing  bridge  (or  the  Assyrian  equivalent)  and,  as 
always,  having  a  good  time. 

But  here's  a  marvelous  thing:  Jeremiah's  amus- 
ing works  were  not  lost  to  posterity,  though  cast  as 
aforesaid  into  the  Euphrates, — because  the  holy  man 
had  taken  the  precaution  of  keeping  one  copy  of  the 
Revised  Edition !  If  it  hadn't  been  for  that,  Hein- 
rich  Heine  would  perhaps  never  have  expressed  the 
wish  referred  to  above  nor  I  myself  penned  these 
inconsequential  remarks. 

But  I  certainly  should  have  liked  (with  Heine) 
to  run  over  to  Babylon  some  fine  morning  and  see 
the  sights  and  the  goings  on,  perhaps  take  one  end 
of  a  harmless  flirtation  or  so — why  not? — are  we 
not  human  as  they  were  in  Babylon,  and  have  the 
Jeremiahs  ever  succeeded  in  changing  human  na- 
ture? I  say,  I  should  have  gone,  and  quickly,  too! 
The  language  and  the  manners  would  be  different, 


198      AT  THE   SIGN   OF  THE   VAN 

of  course,  and  the  build  of  the  churches,  the  make 
of  the  cabs  (whether  decolletee  or  otherwise),  the 
uniform  of  the  police  and  the  "daily  hint  from 
Paris"  of  the  flaneuses  de  pave.  But  I  reckon  the 
Babylonians  would  be  enjoying  themselves,  say  three 
thousand  years  ago,  much  as  we  are  doing  to-day 
and  in  pursuit  of  the  same  objects.  Woman,  for 
example,  is  the  principal  factor  of  pleasure  with  us 
as  she  was  in  the  City  of  Semiramis.  In  strict  can- 
dor, we  must  admit  that  she  has  nowise  depreciated 
since  the  days  of  Jeremiah. 

There  was,  secondly,  the  juice  of  the  grape,  lack- 
ing which  love  cannot  be  enjoyed  in  its  fulness  nor 
folly  in  its  most  agreeable  phases.  Having  named 
Woman  and  Wine,  the  everlasting  two,  it  is  quite 
needless  to  conjecture  as  to  the  commonplace  amuse- 
ments— there  are  really  only  a  few  games,  and  they 
have  been  the  same  among  all  peoples  in  all  ages. 
Besides,  the  prophet  Jeremiah,  in  his  miraculously 
preserved  Works,  lays  marked  stress  upon  the  brace 
of  items  above  mentioned,  viz. : — Wine  and  Woman. 
Could  I  have  a  better  authority?  .  .  . 

I  fancy  the  Babylonians  got  more  out  of  their 
good  times  than  we  in  New  York,  which  is  often 
called  after  the  great  City  of  Baal,  though  with  a 
simile  the  most  disparate  and  ironic.  For  one  thing, 
the  Jews  were  not  exclusively  in  charge  of  the  pub- 
lic amusements  of  the  Babylonians,  manning  the  box 
office,  the  cashier's  desk,  the  little  window  at  the 


BABYLON  199 

maison  de  joie,  and  the  books  at  the  race-courses. 
Neither  were  the  latest  imported  artistes  from 
Paris — pardon  !  I  should  say  Tyre  or  Sidon — so 
frequently  of  the  hieratic  race.  The  Chosen  People, 
as  we  read  in  their  holy  records,  never  got  a  fair 
chance  in  Babylon,  after  having  been  taken  there 
against  their  will,  owing  to  the  unreasonable  preju- 
dices of  Nebuchadnezzar  the  graminivorous,  and 
other  royal  Assyrians,  of  names  no  less  difficult. 
The  most  astonishing  miracles  in  favor  of  the  Jews 
failed  to  impress  those  pigheaded  Assyrian  mon- 
archs,  and  so  for  a  long  time  the  chosen  of  God 
remained  mostly  hewers  of  wood  and  drawers  of 
water — occupations  which  they  have  ever  since 
loathed  and  which  are  indeed  unsuited  to  their  finan- 
cial and  trading  ability.  Here  and  there  an  excep- 
tional genius  might  surreptitiously  do  a  little  in  the 
Three-Ball  way,  but  the  Babylonian  bilks  were  apt 
to  swoop  down  upon  him  at  any  moment,  and  then 
away  with  him  to  the  brickyards ! 

It  was  too  bad,  and  Jeremiah  was  right  to  damn 
the  Babylonians  as  he  did  and  to  cast  his  Book 
against  them  into  the  guilty  waters  of  the  Euphrates. 
Still,  I  should  have  liked  to  see  Assyrian  art  under 
such  circumstances — it  must  have  been  so  different! 
Thespian  art  especially, — the  Art  of  the  Theatre,  as 
Mr.  Gordon  Craig  calls  it, — without  a  Jew  in  a  fur 
collar  to  exploit  the  same,  backed  up  by  his  con- 
freres in  the  press,  would  be  a  lot  more  interesting 


200      AT  THE   SIGN   OF  THE   VAN 

than  a  cuneiform  legend.  I  wonder  how  they  man- 
aged the  Sidon  Show  Girls  and  the  Tyrian  Tan- 
talizers  before  the  days  of  Shadrach,  Shekel  &  Co. 
(lim.).  And 

O  Babylon,  didst  thou  not  know 
A  single  impresario 

of  the  Oscar  Hammerstein  species? — (Wegglike, 
one  involuntarily  drops  into  poetry  at  the  mere 
thought  of  him).  Was  there  not  one  Hebrew 
"barker"  within  thy  gates?  Well  mightst  thou 
laugh  to  scorn  the  curses  of  Jeremiah!  .  .  . 

It  seems  probable  that  the  Babylonians  were  not 
given  to  anything  like  so  much  of  the  Noise  we 
euphemistically  term  music,  at  their  public  and  pri- 
vate entertainments.  The  thought  calls  up  a  yearn- 
ing regret  for  Babylon,  in  spite  of  the  harsh  opin- 
ions of  Jeremiah.  In  this  particular,  who  shall 
question  their  good  taste?  The  spectacle  of  people 
trying  to  eat  and  converse  while  suffering  the  im- 
pact of  a  strident  phonograph,  an  athletic  orchestra, 
a  leather-lunged  tenor,  a  screeching  soprano  or  a 
colored  quartet, — was  doubtless  undreamed  of  in 
Babylon,  and  had  such  aids  to  enjoyment  flourished 
there,  they  would  perhaps  have  made  unnecessary 
some  of  the  curses  of  Jeremiah.  So,  too,  it  may  be 
granted  that  the  Babylonian  idea  of  a  good  time 
never  comprehended  those  alleged  cafes-chantants 


BABYLON  201 

(Parisian-Hebrew)  where  people  vulgarly  eat  and 
drink  the  while  vulgarity  "entertains"  them  from  the 
stage.  Nor  Babylon,  nor  Tyre,  nor  Sidon  ever  saw 
anything  so  atrocious,  we  can  promise  ourselves,  as 
these  and  similar  offences  in  the  name  of  amusement 
which  the  remote  descendants  of  Jeremiah  and  his 
kind  are  providing  for  us  to-day  in  the  modern 
Gotham  at  prices  that  would  have  given  the  pip  to 
Belshazzar  himself;  moreover,  with  strong-armed 
bandits  behind  every  chair  to  rob  the  guests  of  their 
few  remaining  pieces.  O  ya,  ya !  was  there  ever 
seen  such  a  country  for  the  mazuma !  .  .  . 

Best  of  all,  there  were  no  Yellow  Newspapers  in 
Babylon — had  they  been,  do  you  think  Shadrach, 
Shekel  &  Co.  would  not  have  somehow  got  into  the 
Show  Business,  heinf  What  a  foolishness  to  think 
it!  ... 

Do  you  blame  me,  then,  if  I  agree  with  Heine  in 
his  preference  for  Babylon? — and  so  conclude  with  a 
verse  from  the  old  Assyrian  poet  above  quoted — 
though,  needless  to  say,  I  am  no  sharer  in  his  anti- 
Semitic  prejudices : — 

In  Babylon  there's  ne'er  a  Jew 
But  has  his  honest  stint  to  do 
(Which  means  he  does  not  me  or  you!) 
Should  he  his  tale  of  bricks  eschew, 
Faith,  soon  he'd  learn  a  trick  or  two 
In  Babylon! 


XV 

THE     NEW    BOUILLABAISSE 

(With  apologies  to  W.  M.  T.) 

A  PLACE  I  know  in  old  Manhattan, 
On  Avenue  Sixth,  to  Broadway  near, 
Where  I  and  cronies  mine  have  sat  in 
Full  oft  to  Mouquin's  famous  cheer. 
Mine  host  is  French,  likewise  the  menu, 

The  service  spiced  with  Gallic  grace, 
But  not  a  dish  will  there  detain  you 
Like  that  they  call  the  Bouillabaisse. 

What  is  it?     Well,  a  sort  of  chowder, 

Or  you  might  say  a  fish  ragout, 
With  all  things  succulent  allowed  or 

The  pick  of  such  as  make  a  stew: 
"Green  herbs,  red  peppers,  saffron,  mussel, 

Soles,  onions,  garlic,  roach  and  dace" — • 
Why  need  I  with  the  medley  tussle, 

Since  he  has  sung  the  Bouillabaisse? 

202 


THE   NEW   BOUILLABAISSE        203 

God  bless  the  French ! — and  give  them  credit 

For  cheering  this  dull  life  below: 
Blood  of  the  grape! — still  let  me  shed  it 

In  Burgundy  or  old  Bordeaux. 
And  shall  I  not  cry  Vive  la  cuisine! 

That  boon  of  man's  brief  mortal  space, 
And,  while  I  may,  make  shift  to  squeeze  in 

And  take  my  fill  of  Bouillabaisse? 


Egad,  'tis  full  ten  years  and  longer 

Since  first  I  stopped  at  Mouquin's  door 
With  him,  the  braver  and  the  stronger, 

Whom  I  shall  haste  to  meet  no  more. 
Ah,  Friend !  how  often  here  while  sitting, 

Of  your  untimely  ended  race 
I  think,  with  memories  round  me  flitting 

Of  that  first  bowl  of  Bouillabaisse ! 


A  truce  to  thought! — "Allans!  mon  garqon, 

La  carte  des  vins" — "Monsieur,  vent-il 
Du  rouge  ou  blanc?"    And,  like  a  parson, 

Pious  I  con  the  well-known  bill. 
"Well,  this  Laffitte  of  ten  years  dated" — 

"Oui,  Monsieur,  c'est  du  Ires  fin." — So: 
Unlike  myself,  'tis  not  belated, 

And  time  but  makes  it  richer  glow. 


204      AT  THE   SIGN   OF   THE   VAN 

A  bumper  for  old  Melancholy! 

We'll  drown  him  fathoms  deep  to-night, 
And  in  his  stead  crown  laughing  Folly, 

With  lilting  airs  and  glances  bright; — 
Her  cheeks  as  red,  her  smile  as  winning, 

And  still  the  same  gay  mocking  grace 
We  knew  of  yore  nor  thought  it  sinning, 

With  Beauty  o'er  the  Bouillabaisse. 


Ah !  where  is  she,  of  love  no  scorner, 

To  whom  my  heart  was  slave  of  yore? 
Here  would  we  dine  in  this  same  corner. 

And  here  would  I  my  passion  pour. 
Dear  girl !  'twere  vain  my  grief  to  smother, 

When  I  recall  her  darling  face : 
She  jilted  me  and  chose  another ! — 

But  we  have  shared  the  Bouillabaisse. 


And  where's  her  first  or  last  successor? 

God  bless  the  dears ! — I  love  them  all, 
And  still  would  be  Pater  Confessor, 

Should  better  luck  no  more  befall. 
The  game  goes  on,  though  I'm  not  playing; 

In  many  a  couple  here  I  trace 
The  lure  that  set  my  heart  a-swaying, 

With  Love  across  the  Bouillabaisse. 


THE   NEW   BOUILLABAISSE        205 

But  Love  takes  wing  and  Friendship  tarries, 

And  Wisdom,  passing  forty-year, 
His  peace  unto  his  comfort  marries, 

And  coddles  his  digestion  dear. 
Still  comes  he,  though  a  trifle  fusty, 

A  stickler  for  his  ancient  place, 
And  sips  his  wine  still  rich  and  crusty, 

And  gobbles  o'er  his  Bouillabaisse. 


But  where  is  each  old  camarado 

Met  here  so  oft  and  ne'er  in  vain? 
Where  Sadakichi's  queer  bravado, 

And  Benj,  the  learned  Jew  of  Spain? 
Where's  Paleologue,  that  Grecian  swagger, 

And  Flanagan  o'  the  fighting  race? 
Where's  Dick  the  poet? — James  no  lagger 

At  art  or  drink  or  Bouillabaisse? 


Can  they  be  gone? — Why,  here  together 

Drinking  we  staid  but  yester-night, 
Or  was  't  last  year? — I  know  not  whether 

If  these  poor  wits  of  mine  go  right. 
But  sure  we  sat  here,  blithe  and  merry, 

While  jest  and  gibe  did  fly  apace. — 
I  start  and  wake — it  was  the  Sherry 

I  took  before  my  Bouillabaisse  1 


206      AT   THE   SIGN   OF   THE   VAN 

"Pardon,  Monsieur!" — the  waiter,  smiling, 
Speaks  as  he  held  the  magic  clew 

Of  the  dark  web  my  breast  beguiling — 
"Tons  vos  amis  s'informent  de  voits." 


Thank  fate !  the  ugly  dream  is  over — 
May  we  for  many  a  year  of  grace 

Still  meet  around  the  cheerful  cover, 
To  share  the  wit  and  Bouillabaisse. 


XVI 

HIS     BED 

THEY  offered  me  his  apartment  because  I 
was  under  suspicion  of  being  somewhat 
literary  myself,  and  they  reckoned  upon 
baiting  me  with  a  famous  name.  He  had  died  only 
a  short  time  before  and  the  rooms  had  not  been 
occupied  since  he  was  taken  to  the  hospital.  He 
had  lived  here  several  years,  in  fact,  during  the 
greater  part  of  his  brief  literary  career,  and  here  he 
had  done  the  work  which  gave  him  his  reputation. 

While  the  caretaker,  an  agreeable  and  well-spoken 
man,  was  talking,  I  looked  about  curiously  and  with 
not  a  little  awe,  seized  by  that  emotion  which  rooms 
or  habitations  associated  with  personality  and 
achievement  always  awaken  in  us.  Not  much  to 
look  at:  parlor,  bedroom  and  a  tiny  bath,  but  com- 
fortable enough  for  a  single  man.  As  to  that,  the 
caretaker  said  the  apartments  rented  readily  enough 
for  light  housekeeping.  It  could  hardly  be  lighter, 
I  thought. 

I  was  tempted,  but  hesitated  on  reflecting  that  he 
had  left  these  rooms  to  die.  Who  of  us  does  not 

207 


208       AT  THE   SIGN   OF   THE   VAN 

give  heed  to  such  superstitious  promptings?  Be- 
sides, the  sleeping  room  was  too  dark  (the  usual 
condition  of  these  bandboxes) ,  while  the  living  room 
fronted  on  a  traffic-ridden  street  and  was  too  noisy 
for  me. 

"He  did  not  mind  the  noise,"  said  the  caretaker, 
"because,  you  see,  he  slept  in  the  daytime,  in  this 
back  bedroom,  and  worked  at  night.  It  suited  him 
all  right,  and  he  was  here  seven  years.  A  fine  man 
he  was,  sir,  and  a  good  patron  of  the  house.  I  sup- 
pose you  have  read  some  of  his  books? — Lord! — 
what  a  lot  of  writing  he  used  to  turn  out  in  this  room. 
Many's  a  time  I've  seen  the  floor  littered  with  sheets 
of  paper.  And  he  seemed  to  have  no  trouble  sell- 
ing his  work.  I've  seen  some  of  the  biggest  pub- 
lishers waiting  for  him  down  in  the  hall,  and  he  in 
no  hurry  to  have  them  shown  up.  He  had  no  use 
for  them,  except  when  he  wanted  money,  and  never 
have  I  known  a  man  so  free  and  careless  with  it." 

"He  didn't  care  much  for  company,  anyway,  did 
he?"  I  said,  willing  to  indulge  the  man's  evident  de- 
sire to  gossip. 

"No,  sir,  he  kept  pretty  much  to  himself,  and  sel- 
dom went  out  when  he  had  a  story  on  the  stocks. 
Oh,  there  were  times  when  we  wouldn't  see  him  for 
days  and  nights,  when  he  was  hunting  material,  on 
the  track  of  the  Thousand-Dollar  short  story,  as  he 
used  to  say;  but,  as  a  rule,  he  was  a  home-keeping 
man.  I  guess  he  knew  his  New  York  like  a  book 


HIS    BED  209 

and  didn't  have  to  potter  around  to  get  what  he 
wanted.  A  sociable  man,  too,  sir,  in  his  own  way; 
liked  to  chat  with  us  in  the  house  whenever  we  came 
up  to  look  after  him.  And  not  very  strong  for  the 
women,  sir — indeed,  no,  though  of  course  he  was 
human  like  the  rest  of  us." 

The  caretaker  coughed  slightly,  as  who  should 
say  that  he  could  tell  more  if  he  would;  but  I  did  not 
wish  to  follow  up  this  lead  and,  instead,  turned  to  an- 
other point  on  which  I  had  long  craved  information. 

"Is  it  true,"  I  asked, — "I  have  only  the  friendli- 
est interest  in  the  man  and  not  the  least  disposition 
to  scandalize  his  memory — but  is  it  true  that  he 
drank  very  much?  I  ask  because  it  is  difficult  to  see 
how  a  heavy  drinker  could  produce  so  much  work 
and,  in  the  main,  of  such  excellent  quality.  The 
newspapers  have  printed  some  frightful  stuff  about 
him.  How  much  actual  truth  was  in  it?" 

"Well,  sir,  he  drank  pretty  hard  in  the  last  years 
— I  suppose  there's  no  use  denying  it." 

"You  mean  in  a  sociable  way — in  company,  with 
his  friends?" 

"Oh,  no,  sir;  that  wouldn't  have  harmed  him  near 
so  much.  He  drank  alone,  in  this  room,  and,  as  he 
often  told  me,  to  nerve  him  up  to  his  work.  I  don't 
believe  he  drank  for  love  of  the  drink.  I've  heard 
him  say  that  if  there  was  any  stimulant  besides  alco- 
hol that  would  keep  him  up  to  his  work,  he  would 
never  take  another  drink  of  whiskey.  But  there 


210      AT  THE   SIGN   OF  THE   VAN 

isn't,  is  there,  sir? — and  toward  the  last  he  took  his 
two  quarts  a  day.  And  you'd  hardly  see  the  sign  of 
it  on  him.  Oh,  it  got  him  all  right  finally — the  doc- 
tor warned  him  often  enough.  But,  as  I've  heard 
him  say,  it  didn't  matter  whether  he  went  a  bit 
sooner  or  later,  and  while  he  had  to  work,  the  'drink' 
was  necessary  to  him.  He  was  totally  without  fear, 
sir — you've  heard  how  he  asked  the  doctor  to  turn 
on  the  light  when  he  was  near  the  end,  saying,  'I 
don't  want  to  go  home  in  the  dark !' ' 

There  was  an  unaffected  quiver  in  the  caretaker's 
voice,  and  I  understood  why  he  had  liked  to  chat 
with  him. 

After  a  pause  the  man  said:  "But  if  you  don't 
like  these  rooms,  I  can  show  you  a  nice  rear  apart- 
ment very  much  more  quiet  and  with  better  light. 
You  notice  the  bed  here — his  bed  is  very  good,  and 
I'd  advise  you  to  take  it." 

To  this  I  acceded  too  readily  and  presently  I  was 
installed  with  my  belongings  and  his  bed  in  the  "nice 
rear  apartment."  During  the  daylight  hours  I  often 
looked  at  the  bed,  thinking  of  the  busy  restless  head 
that  had  lain  there — that  had  dreamed  there  some 
of  the  last  dreams  it  was  to  have  in  this  world.  .  .  . 

When  bedtime  came  my  mind  was  still  running  on 
him,  in  spite  of  myself,  and  I  lay  a  long  while  think- 
ing of  his  brief  yet  so  brilliant  career;  of  the  chap- 
ter of  prison  shame  in  the  past  which  he  had  so  gal- 
lantly redeemed;  of  the  variety  and  vigor  of  his 


HIS    BED  211 

inventions  and  the  astonishing  rate  at  which  he  had 
poured  them  forth;  lastly,  of  that  fatal  necessity  of 
excitement,  the  curse  of  such  fiery,  imaginative  minds 
as  his,  and  that  prostration  of  will  which  had  con- 
spired to  drive  him  into  an  early  grave  and  add  an- 
other to  the  memorable  examples  of  fallen  talent. 

My  sleep  was  a  chaos  of  dreams  wherein  I  wan- 
dered with  cowboys,  tenderfeet,  rustlers,  bad  men 
and  all  manner  of  wild-western  types,  among  whom 
there  were  strangely  mingled  characters  as  wild  but 
less  familiar  from  the  Central  American  countries. 
I  seemed  to  know  them  all  somehow,  and  I  went 
around  among  them  calling  them  by  their  names,  a 
familiarity  which  nobody  resented.  Then  I  woke, 
and,  after  tossing  another  while,  went  off  into  a  new 
dream-series  that  was  even  more  wildly  confused, 
but  wherein  the  people  I  met  were  all  typical  of 
Manhattan,  Harlem  and  the  Bronx.  Panhandlers, 
gamblers,  cheap  sports,  night  birds  of  every  feather, 
second-story  men,  bad  actors,  show  girls,  serio- 
comics,  the  population  of  vaudeville,  "East  Side, 
West  Side  and  all  around  the  town" — all  went 
marching  through  my  brain  to  a  lilting  ragtime  meas- 
ure that  was  still  playing  when  the  alarm  clock  went 
off  at  my  ear. 

And  the  first  thought  to  say  good  morning  to  me 
was,  that  even  without  the  caretaker's  gossip,  I 
should  have  known  that  I  had  slept  in  O.  Henry's 
bed. 


XVII 

SEX  IN  THE   PLAYHOUSE 

THE  American  drama, — nay,  the  American 
theatre, — has  now  but  one  word — SEX  ! 
The  play's  no  longer  the  thing,  but  the 
sex  in  the  play.  Whether  the  piece  be  "tragedy, 
comedy,  history,  pastoral,  pastoral-comical,  histor- 
ical-pastoral, tragical- comical- historical-pastoral," 
(to  quote  Polonius],  or,  more  likely,  something  that 
is  no  more  like  any  of  these  than  Hamlet's  cloud,  it 
must  have,  above  all  things  else,  and  commonly  to 
the  exclusion  of  all  things  else,  the  tang  and  rank- 
ness  of  sex. 

Hence,  we  have  a  popular  drama,  or,  not  to  de- 
grade the  word,  stage-entertainment,  that  reeks  with 
rice  powder,  of  which  the  "stars"  are  all  women  and 
their  chief  merit  an  emphasized  sexuality.  Public 
interest  in  these  women  is  diligently  stimulated  by 
the  newspapers  of  large  circulation,  which  act  as 
"cappers"  for  the  theatres  in  consideration  of  paid 
advertising.  Their  love  affairs,  their  divorces,  how 
they  keep  down  pus  and  swing  the  saucy  croup  that 
lures  the  Johnnys,  old  and  young, — with  suchlike 

212 


SEX    IN    THE    PLAYHOUSE         213 

pleasing  details  of  their  toilets  and  their  persons,  are 
constantly  thrust  upon  us  with  a  persistency  that 
savors  of  Baxter  Street,  and  in  the  fulsomely  fa- 
miliar style  of  the  yellow  journalist.  Simple  people 
who  wonder  at  the  quantity  of  space  given  up  to 
"featuring"  these  sawdust  dolls  of  the  stage,  do  not 
think  of  the  shrewd  business  calculation  back  of  it. 

I  have  heretofore  pointed  out  the  close  analogy 
that  exists  between  Yellow  Journalism  and  Yellow 
Theatricalism.  They  are  both  marked  by  certain 
qualities  which  one  word  connotes  and  describes.  It 
is  therefore  not  surprising  to  find  them  in  a  business 
partnership. 

As  the  five-franc  piece  was  said  to  be  the  hero  of 
every  one  of  Balzac's  novels,  so  the  dollar  is  the 
motive  of  the  Sexual  Drama — the  motive,  I  would 
say,  of  its  production  and  exploitation.  This  con- 
dition of  things  we  owe  to  a  type  of  manager  who 
now  controls  our  theatre  to  a  marked  extent,  and 
is  paymaster  of  our  drama. 

I  do  not  say  that  the  Jew  discovered  sex,  but  he 
certainly  hit  upon  its  commercial  value  in  connection 
with  the  drama.  Something  of  this,  of  course,  was 
known  before;  it  remained  for  the  Jew,  with  his 
infallible  instinct  for  the  weakness  of  human  nature, 
— an  Eastern  gift,  by  the  way, — to  develop  it  to  the 
full ;  in  short,  to  get  the  business  out  of  it.  That  he 
has  done  this  no  competent  observer  will  deny.  In 
most  of  the  theatres  controlled  by  him,  vaudeville  or 


214      AT  THE   SIGN   OF   THE   VAN 

what-not,  we  get  little  but  sexualized  entertainment 
that  makes  its  covert  or  frank  appeal  to  the  baser  in- 
stincts. Like  his  fellow,  the  Yellow  Journalist,  the 
Jew  theatre-manager  knows  that  everybody  has 
these,  and  with  an  admirable  economy  of  effort,  he 
makes  his  play  accordingly.  His  genius  for  busi- 
ness and  management  enables  him  to  spread  the  con- 
tagion far  and  wide.  I  pass  over  the  legends  ex- 
planatory of  the  elevation  of  certain  beefy  and 
brainless  bayaderes  as  "stars,"  who  haven't  abilities 
above  dish-washing — it  is  surely  adding  insult  to  in- 
jury if  the  Jew  makes  us  pay  for  his  mistresses! 
But  the  earnest  student  of  the  drama  may  well  be 
puzzled  that  a  country  like  ours,  which  is  notably 
poor  in  all  that  concerns  true  art,  should  have  some 
dozens  of  women  exploited  as  great  actresses  and 
heading  their  own  companies,  while  in  France,  where 
the  art  of  the  theatre  is  carried  to  the  highest  excel- 
lence, we  hear  mention  of  only  two  or  three  famous 
names. 

The  explanation  probably  is  that  art  makes  the 
actress  in  France,  while  the  Jew  makes  her  in  our 
favored  country.  I  speak  calmly  and  without  preju- 
dice, for  I  am  not  a  Jew-hater,  and  am  indeed  proud 
to  count  among  that  race  some  of  my  warmest 
friends.  But  it  is  not  my  cue  to  flatter  either  Jew 
or  Gentile,  and  I  am  bound  to  say  that  the  present 
degradation  of  the  stage  in  this  country  bears  a 
stigma  and  a  character  offensively  Semitic. 


SEX    IN    THE    PLAYHOUSE         215 

The  prevalent  "Salome"  business  offers  a  striking 
example  of  the  kind  of  "art"  and  the  kind  of  man- 
agerial methods  that  disgrace  the  popular  playhouse. 
Not  a  variety  show  on  the  "circuit"  but  has  its 
Salome  Dance,  whose  only  attraction  lies  in  the 
nudity  of  the  performer,  and  the  indecency  of  the 
exhibit.  The  rage  of  these  utterly  artless  Phrynes 
for  uncovering  all  that  Nature  gave  them  infects 
the  audience  with  a  sort  of  satyriasis.  The  news- 
papers, as  I  have  said,  lend  a  lavish  aid  with  text 
and  picture.  Of  one  such  performance  I  read:  "An 
inch  to  the  right  or  an  inch  to  the  left,  the  shifting 
of  a  shadow  of  one  of  the  responsible  jewels,  and 
revelations  must  ensue  which  a  world  of  blushes 
would  not  suffice  to  cover." 

This  is  Orientalism  of  the  grossest  kind,  but  it 
fetches  the  money,  and,  indeed,  the  Jew  has  found 
nothing  so  profitable  since  the  huchi-kuchi.  That  he 
knows  his  business,  is  evident  from  the  success  of  the 
rampant,  riotous  Salome  craze,  and  that  his  business 
is  to  inoculate  the  American  public  with  the  virus  of 
Eastern  sensualism,  is  equally  clear.  .  .  . 

Not  long  ago  I  dropped  into  one  of  the  finest 
theatres  in  New  York  at  an  evening  performance. 
The  costliness  and  beauty  and  grandeur  of  this  play- 
house were  such  as  Shakespeare  never  imagined.  I 
thought  of  the  bareness  of  the  "wooden  O,"  which 
must  needs  suffice  the  most  potent  genius  that  has 
ever  ruled  the  stage.  Of  the  ill-smelling  mechanic 


216      AT  THE   SIGN   OF   THE   VAN 

rabble  in  the  pit,  where  juniper  had  to  be  burned  to 
the  end  of  overcoming  their  sweet  natural  odors. 
Of  the  stage  with  its  poor  daubs  of  scenery  and 
primitive  make-believe  contrivances, — where,  too, 
hectoring  fine  gentlemen  of  the  day  made  place  for 
themselves,  sadly  incommoding  the  actors.  Yes,  I 
thought  of  the  smoky,  ill-lighted,  foul-smelling  Globe 
or  Blackfriars  wherein  were  first  enacted  the  grand- 
est tragedies,  the  finest  comedies  ever  written,  and 
then  I  surveyed  the  beauty  and  brightness,  the  lux- 
ury and  taste  by  which  I  was  surrounded  in  this 
modern  New  York  theatre.  Three  superb  galleries. 
Tier  upon  tier  of  splendidly  furnished  boxes.  The 
lower  part  of  the  house,  rising  from  the  orchestra 
by  a  gentle  incline,  set  the  general  note  of  comfort, 
convenience  and  elegance.  Prevailing  color,  Pom- 
peian  red,  with  chandeliers  and  clusters  of  the  rich- 
est and  most  beautiful  designs.  Over  all  a  perfect 
light  that  never  offended  the  eye  and  that  came  and 
went  marvelously,  as  the  exigencies  of  the  perform- 
ance required.  Wonderful  scenic  effects  and  illu- 
sions that  would  have  made  old  Prospero  burn  his 
books  in  despair.  And  an  audience  which  in  num- 
bers, in  prosperity,  in  manners  and  seeming  intelli- 
gence might  have  honored  the  noblest  traditions  of 
the  theatre. 

I  turned  to  the  magnificent  stage,  the  like  of  which 
Shakespeare  never  saw  or  even  dreamed.  Thereon 
a  large  young  woman  was  exhibiting  her  flesh — most 


SEX    IN    THE    PLAYHOUSE         217 

of  it — and  singing  a  vaudeville  song  in  the  colorless, 
unlovely  voice  that  seems  to  belong  to  all  "artists" 
of  this  type.  Between  verses  she  kicked  and  danced 
with  as  much  suggestion  as  she  could  command — of 
art  or  true  grace  there  was  nothing  at  all.  She 
varied  her  act  a  little  by  reciting  a  few  "gags,"  more 
or  less  flippant  and  smutty,  in  that  exasperating 
phonograph  voice  of  the  female  vaudevillian.  Her 
performance  was,  in  her  own  dialect,  "rotten,"  but 
she  seemed,  nevertheless,  to  have  made  a  hit  and 
was  recalled  several  times.  .  .  . 

I  have  said  that  I  am  no  Jew-hater.  Therefore  I 
may  be  allowed  to  say,  without  prejudice,  that  the 
Jew  must  be  called  off  from  his  present  work  of  de- 
grading the  stage.  Kipling  warns  us  that  "East  is 
East  and  West  is  West,  but  never  the  twain  shall 
meet."  To  the  Jew  of  the  species  under  analysis, 
sex  is  everything — except  the  money.  He  cannot 
conceive  of  pleasure  or  entertainment  without  it; 
that  is,  of  course,  his  Asiatic  inheritance.  But  he  is 
not  the  only,  although  the  most  conspicuous,  offen- 
der; and,  indeed,  more  and  more  are  found  apt  to 
learn  the  lesson. 

Finally  I  wish  it  to  be  understood  that  my  censure 
is  expressly  aimed  at  and  limited  to  the  type  of  Jew 
who  is  commercializing  the  popular  playhouse  at  a 
terrible  cost  to  public  morals  and  to  the  fatal  preju- 
dice of  a  genial  art.  I  know,  as  well  as  anyone  who 
may  think  to  remind  me,  how  much  that  art  owes  to 


2i 8       AT  THE   SIGN   OF  THE  VAN 

Semitic  genius  both  on  its  mimetic  and  creative  sides. 
My  writings  in  the  past  should  vindicate  me  from 
the  charge  or  suspicion  of  Jew-hatred,  and  I  shall 
surely  have  done  the  race  a  service  if  any  word  of 
mine  should  aid  in  calling  off  the  evil  type  of  Jew 
who  is  bringing  reproach  upon  the  name. 


The  racial  nerve  is  highly  sensitive,  and  to  an  ex- 
cessive degree,  perhaps,  among  people  who  have 
been  subjected  to  abuse  and  persecution  because  of 
their  race.  Therefore,  it  is  not  surprising,  in  spite 
of  my  previous  good  character,  that  a  few  honest 
Hebrew  friends  of  mine  should  have  taken  in  very 
ill  part  the  preceding  article  on  "Sex  in  the  Play- 
house." They  were  angry  because  I  had  touched  a 
sore  and  sensitive  nerve,  and  they  did  not  stop  to 
consider  whether  I  was  justified  at  all  in  touching  it. 
I  still  believe  that  I  was,  and  their  letters,  written 
to  me  in  anger,  have  not  persuaded  me  to  the  con- 
trary. 

In  making  my  criticism  upon  a  type  of  Jew  who 
is,  I  believe,  largely  responsible  for  the  degradation 
of  the  popular  stage  entertainment, — for  its  vul- 
garity, its  almost  complete  lack  of  intellectual  qual- 
ity, above  all,  for  its  crass  indecency  or  sexualism, — 
I  took  pains  to  point  out  that  I  spoke  as  a  friend  of 
the  Jew.  This  is  bitterly  contravened  by  some  of 


SEX    IN    THE    PLAYHOUSE         219 

my  Hebrew  critics.  A  worthy  Rabbi  in  New  York 
writes  me: 

"You  cannot  help  being  a  Jew-hater — it  is  in  the 
blood,  or  rather  in  the  water  with  which  you  were 
baptized." 

I  respect  a  good  man  even  when  anger  moves  him 
to  be  unjust.  The  Rabbi  is  wrong — I  do  not  hate, 
I  love  my  brother  the  Jew.  But,  if  the  Rabbi  please, 
I  shall  choose  my  Jewish  brother,  and  it  will  not  be 
the  type  of  Jew  whom  I  have  scored  as  a  reproach 
to  the  race.  I  assure  the  Rabbi  that  my  liberal  view 
of  Christianity  is  such  that  it  could  not  foster  Jew- 
hatred.  Strictly  logical  Christians  should  love  the 
Jew  (I  fear  many  of  them  do  not),  for  what  is 
Christianity  but  another  form  of  Judaism?  Can  the 
orthodox  Christian  take  Christ  and  leave  Moses? 
Can  he  accept  the  Gospels  and  cast  away  Genesis? 
Take  Calvary  and  leave  Sinai?  Nay,  my  dear 
Rabbi,  if  you  will  pardon  the  homely  phrase  in  such 
a  connection,  these  eggs  are  all  in  one  basket! 

Certainly,  then,  it  is  not  as  a  Christian  that  I 
could,  would  or  should  hate  the  Jew.  Indeed,  as  a 
prudent  man,  with  Heaven  to  gain,  I  should  en- 
deavor to  stand  well  with  the  whole  family,  the  an- 
cient as  well  as  the  more  modern  connection.  Also 
I  remember  Disraeli's  observation,  that  half  the 
world  worships  a  Jew  and  the  other  half  a  Jewess 
.  .  .  curiously  indisputable,  though  we  seldom  think 
of  it  in  that  way. 


220       AT  THE   SIGN   OF   THE   VAN 

Again,  the  good  Rabbi  fears  that  I  am  myself 
tainted  with  the  sensuality  I  impute  to  the  playhouse 
Jew-manager,  because  I  have  gone  into  details  re- 
garding the  "Salome"  business,  both  on  the  stage 
and  in  the  yellow  press.  This  is  a  foolish  use  of  the 
Tu  quoque.  The  Rabbi  knows  that  nothing  is  hid- 
den at  a  clinic.  My  task  in  the  article  referred  to 
above  was  similarly  painful  but  salutary.  Other 
friends  assure  me  that  I  kept  well  within  bounds. 

The  racial  nerve,  and  not  the  Rabbi's  logical  fac- 
ulty, is  at  work  when  he  resents  fair  criticism  or 
censure  of  any  type  of  Jew.  On  this  principle  he 
will  find  an  overwhelming  number  of  Jew-haters 
among  his  own  race.  With  such  I  am  well  content 
to  be  classed, — with  Heine  in  other  days  and  with 
Zangwill  in  these.  By  the  way,  has  my  reverend 
censor  read  the  latter's  fine  poem  entitled  "Israel"? 
I  quote  a  few  lines,  merely  to  refresh  his  memory 
and  awaken  his  candor. 

Hear,  O  Israel,  Jehovah  the  Lord  our  God  is  One, 
But  we,  Jehovah — His  people — are  dual  and  so  un- 
done. 

Slaves   in   eternal   Egypts,   baking  their   strawless 

bricks, 
At  ease  in  successive  Zions,  prating  their  politics; 


SEX    IN    THE    PLAYHOUSE         221 

Priests  of  the  household  altar,  blessing  the  bread 

and  wine, 
Lords  of  the  hells  of  Gomorrah,  licensed  keepers  of 

swine; 

Pious,  fanatical  zealots,  throttled  by  Talmud  coil, 
Impious  lechers  and  sceptics,  cynical  stalkers  of  spoil. 

Another  remonstrant,  also  a  reader  of  long  stand- 
ing, says  with  much  heat:  "Your  article,  'Sex  in  the 
Playhouse,'  was  a  revelation.  Two  sentences — con- 
tradictory as  they  are — betray  the  color  of  your  writ- 
ings and  the  character  of  the  man.  'I  am  not  a 
Jew-hater,'  you  say:  a  cowardly  retraction  when  one 
considers  the  essence  of  your  article :  The  degrada- 
tion of  the  stage  in  this  country  bears  a  character 
offensively  Semitic." 

The  racial  nerve,  you  see!  A  thing  may  be  bad, 
even  damned  bad  (I  am  not  now  talking  to  a 
Rabbi),  but  it  must  not  be  "offensively  Semitic"  (by 
the  way,  the  term  Semitic  is  not  limited  to  the  He- 
brew race).  The  reason  wherefore  does  not  appeal 
to  me.  Are  there  no  infra-angelic  Jews  at  all? 
Must  we  salute  every  member  of  the  hieratic  race 
with  the  exalted  compliment,  Macula  non  est  in  te! 
I  should  not  hesitate  to  write  of  a  thing  as  "offensive- 
ly Irish"  or  "offensively  English,"  or  "offensively 
Gallic,"  if  it  were  so  in  either  case.  Then,  if  I  find  a 
thing  offensively  Semitic,  shall  I  not  say  so,  on  pain 


222       AT  THE   SIGN   OF  THE   VAN 

of  being  dubbed  a  Jew-hater?  Parbleu!  This  is 
the  worst  kind  of  intolerance,  the  vice  of  those  who 
have  cried  "Persecution  1"  so  long  that  they  keep  it 
up  after  persecution  has  ceased,  and  often  to  divert 
attention  from  things  that  will  not  bear  the  light. 


XVIII 

TO    A    JOURNALIST 

I  TAKE  the  liberty  of  addressing  you  thus  di- 
rectly (though  my  personal  acquaintance  with 
you  is  of  the  slightest)  for  these  several  rea- 
sons: You  are  perhaps  the  foremost  exponent  of 
what  is  sometimes  called  the  New,  and  more  often 
and  with  keener  descriptive  effect,  the  Yellow  Jour- 
nalism— it  is,  besides,  a  title  that  you  glory  in,  so 
that  in  using  it  you  will  acquit  me  of  a  purpose  to 
fling  dirt  at  the  outset.  You  are  said  to  be  the  best- 
paid  practitioner  of  this  kind  of  journalism — to  re- 
ceive a  much  larger  salary  than  the  President  of  the 
United  States,  or  of  many  of  the  heads  of  corpora- 
tions which  are  the  objects  of  your  constant  assault. 
With  the  majority  of  such  corporations  I  have  no 
more  sympathy  than  yourself — I  merely  set  down 
the  rumor  or  fact.  But,  even  if  the  least  extrava- 
gant reports  touching  your  salary  are  well  founded, 
no  great  literary  man  of  our  time  has  regularly 
received  anything  like  the  rate  of  your  compensa- 
tion. 

It  is  added  that  in  your  case  the  remuneration  is 
223 


224      AT  THE   SIGN   OF  THE   VAN 

only  a  just  equivalent  of  your  services;  that  you  have 
literally  created  the  success  and  prosperity  of  the 
newspapers  with  which  you  have  been  connected  dur- 
ing ten  or  twelve  years.  Your  career  is  among  the 
wonders  of  latter-day  journalism,  and  you  are  still 
a  young  man  in  vigorous  physical  health  and  of  un- 
exhausted brain.  You  are  yourself  one  of  the  most 
striking  examples  of  that  practical  success  which 
you  are  in  the  constant  habit  of  holding  up  to  your 
readers  as  the  due  reward  of  ability,  concentration 
and  purpose.  Yet  even  such  success  as  yours  must 
pay  a  penalty,  and  it  occurs  to  many  who  view  you 
with  no  unfriendly  eye  that  a  far  less  successful 
writer  might  easily  perform  a  higher  and  better 
service  to  his  generation. 

It  is  also  to  be  accounted  in  your  favor  that  you 
come  of  good  blood  and  brain — and  you  do  not  suf- 
fer this  to  be  forgotten,  being,  like  most  amateur  or 
dilettante  socialists,  an  aristocrat  at  heart.  Your 
father  was  a  cultivated  and  generous  idealist  for 
whom  it  may  be  said  that  in  a  time  when  such  pro- 
fessions among  men  of  wealth  were  far  less  com- 
mon than  they  are  to-day,  and  also  far  less  exposed 
to  suspicion,  he  took  up  and  advocated  the  now  in- 
tellectually popular  gospel  of  socialism.  It  is  true 
he  left  no  enduring  word  of  his  own,  but  at  least  he 
bequeathed  a  gracious  memory  of  himself  in  the 
recollections  of  greater  men.  At  our  only  meeting 
you  took  occasion  to  speak  of  your  honored  father, 


TO   A    JOURNALIST  225 

and  did  so  with  a  natural  pride  which  I  thought  be- 
came you  well.  No  doubt  you  have  inherited  that 
father's  intellect,  without  a  due  share  of  his  softness 
of  heart;  or  perhaps  you  have  rubbed  off  this  latter 
quality  in  the  savage  battles,  the  man-fighting  rival- 
ries of  journalism.  It  may  well  be,  for  in  the  hard 
lines  of  your  face,  in  the  cold,  unsmiling  eye,  metal- 
lic with  concentrated  self,  in  the  firmly  mortised  jaw, 
and  in  the  apparent  transcendency  of  mind  over 
heart,  I  saw  no  image  of  the  gentle  disciple  of 
Fourier.  Nay,  the  thought  came  to  me  that  were  a 
single  chance  of  life  offered  to  two  shipwrecked  men 
on  a  raft  in  mid-ocean,  both  to  fight  for  it  and  one 
of  them  yourself, — I  could  easily  pick  the  survivor. 
You  have  been  well  educated,  and,  though  one  of 
the  hardest  workers  and  most  productive  writers  in 
your  profession,  you  are  a  rigorous  student,  absorb- 
ing and  imparting  the  results  of  your  reading  (for 
you  are  an  unrivaled  popularizer)  with  equal  zest. 
You  have  already  outlived  the  New  York  journal- 
ist's brief  working  generation,  and  your  mind  still 
acts  with  the  spring  of  an  intellectual  athlete:  you 
spin  your  top  as  well  as  ever!  Of  course  there  is 
something  abnormal  about  your  work,  snatched 
from  the  brain  so  often  without  due  ripening;  the 
pace  is  one  you  would  not  naturally  set  yourself. 
The  mental  effort  required  to  produce  so  much  and 
so  constantly,  to  reap  so  many  reluctant  harvests  of 
the  brain,  is  all  the  greater  that  your  work  is  essen- 


226      AT  THE   SIGN   OF  THE  VAN 

tially  joyless.  I  do  not  remember  to  have  ever  read 
an  article,  or  even  a  paragraph,  of  yours  that  made 
me  smile — and  I  am  an  easy  subject.  Evidently  the 
saving  grace  of  kindly  humor  is  not  one  of  your 
striking  gifts;  I  can  but  think  that  you  would  be  the 
better  writer  for  it!  But,  you  will  say,  your  busi- 
ness is  not  to  make  literature,  but  journalism,  and — 
for  you  are  not  ashamed  of  it — even  Yellow  Jour- 
nalism. 

The  word  recalls  me.  I  have  set  down  this  little 
personal  preface  to  prove  that  I  am  not  wholly  igno- 
rant of  your  qualities  and  that  I  can  even  make  a 
guess,  though  possibly  a  wrong  one,  as  to  your  char- 
acter. It  will  perhaps  interest  you  the  more  in  what 
I  have  left  to  say. 

You  are  a  pitiless  critic  of  public  men  with  whom 
your  employer  or  his  newspapers  are  at  feud.  You 
have  revived  and  well-nigh  outdone  the  worst  tra- 
ditions of  personal  journalism — the  kind  of  which 
Dickens  has  drawn  an  immortal  copy.  You  should 
not,  therefore,  mind  a  little  plain  speaking  on  my 
part — I  shall  not  trench  upon  your  license. 

You  know  that  the  newspaper  which  employs  you, 
or,  at  any  rate,  the  kind  of  journalism  which  it  most 
conspicuously  typifies,  is  the  actual  and  potential 
cause  of  much  of  the  crime  which  it  exploits  for  its 
own  profit.  You  know  that  it  is  a  subtly  devised, 
perfectly  organized,  efficiently  conducted  Seminary 
of  Vice.  You  know — for  you  are  one  of  its  direc- 


TO    A   JOURNALIST  227 

tors — that  a  simple  statement  of  its  policy  and  pro- 
gramme would  be :  Work  everything  with  sex  in  it! 
You  cannot  deny — for  your  practice  would  refute 
you — that  herein  is  your  chief  bait  for  circulation. 
As  an  excellent  journalist,  you  would  probably  ad- 
mit that  it  is  vastly  more  effective  than  your  own 
editorials — you  would  not  have  your  style  compared 
to  an  application  of  cantharides ! 

You  know  that  this  vile  and  insidious  appeal  is 
most  cunningly  calculated  for  all  ages;  that,  like  a 
well-organized  brothel,  it  has  seductions  for  the  in- 
nocent, baits  for  the  young,  satisfactions  for  the 
initiate,  and  aphrodisiacs  for  the  old.  You  are  per- 
fectly aware  that  a  steady  course  of  your  news- 
papers would  demoralize  an  archangel  and  confound 
the  moral  relations  of  a  tribe  of  Yahoos.  And  still 
you  dare  brag  of  your  audience  of  a  million  readers. 
God  help  the  city,  if  you  are  anywhere  near  the 
mark! 

You  cannot  deny — though  you  would  sophistically 
evade  the  admission — that  the  most  terribly  alluring 
figure,  in  the  eye  of  your  Yellow  Journalism,  is  the 
Prostitute,  the  Phryne  of  the  social  heights  or 
depths,  by,  for  or  through  whom  murder  and  crimes 
scarcely  less  dark  are  committed.  To  glorify  your 
Lady  of  Shame,  all  restrictions  of  space  are  set  aside 
and  the  whole  battery  of  Yellow  Journalism  is  un- 
masked and  brought  into  play :  Your  famous  novel- 
ist who  can  pervert  fact  into  fiction  better  than  he 


228       AT   THE   SIGN   OF   THE   VAN 

can  present  fiction  as  fact.  Your  celebrated  slop- 
stress  by  whose  banal  art  two  generations  of  factory 
girls  have  tasted  the  delights  of  impossible  romance. 
Your  weird  sisters  of  sensation  kowtowing  about  the 
charmed  pot  of  sexuality.  Your  adepts  at  mixing 
and  contriving  the  false  sentiment,  the  lurid  exag- 
gerations, with  which  you  bid  for  the  popular  penny. 
Your  high-browed  reporters,  intolerant  of  the  re- 
straints of  law,  who  take  it  as  their  function  to 
prejudge  every  case  to  suit  the  passions  of  the  mob 
or  the  exigencies  of  circulation.  Your  male  and 
female  artists  in  pruriency,  primpers  of  libidinous 
phrases,  whose  leering,  affected  modesty  is  given  the 
lie  by  a  covert  bawdy  suggestion,  like  a  satyr's  ob- 
scene by-play,  wherein  is  the  fine  consummate  art  of 
the  Lesbian  journalist. 

All  these  are  of  your  house — the  forced  products 
of  your  boasted  kind  of  journalism. 

Shall  I  tell  you  why  the  direct  appeal  of  your 
newspapers  is  to  the  base  instincts  of  human  nature? 
Because  you  know  that  everybody  has  these,  the 
noble  as  well  as  the  ignoble ;  that  a  beast  crouches  in 
every  human  being,  waiting  only  an  opportunity  to 
leap  forth;  and  you  have  had  good  proof,  no  doubt, 
that  the  mob  craves  the  food  you  give  it.  But  your 
worst  and  most  damnable  offense  is  in  debauching 
thousands  of  innocent  and  ignorant  young  girls  and 
boys  from  whom  it  is  impossible  to  keep  the  rank 


TO   A   JOURNALIST  229 

infection  of  your  paper — as  soon  as  they  can  spell 
you  make  them  free  of  the  Seminary  of  Vice  I 

Will  you  dare  assert  that  your  newspaper,  and 
others  of  the  same  kind  and  hue,  give  a  worthy 
reflection  of  the  life  of  the  great  city  of  New  York? 
Think  of  the  whole  world  of  things,  inspiring,  in- 
structive, useful  or  ennobling,  which  you  deliber- 
ately ignore  or  suppress  in  favor  of  all  that  de- 
grades, debases  and  corrupts.  Think  what  a  Sodom 
this  city  would  be  if  it  were  literally  as  your  journal- 
ism depicts  it! — heaven  would  not  have  avenging 
fire  enough  to  consume  it.  Fancy  the  utter  destruc- 
tion of  the  Great  City  by  some  Pompeian  catastro- 
phe, with  only  a  sample  copy  of  your  paper  to  tell 
future  generations  what  it  was  like,  what  manner  of 
people  lived  and  died  in  it.  Would  not  men  say 
that  it  had  perished  under  the  just  curse  of  God! — 
would  not  they  pronounce  it  the  wickedest,  the  most 
foolish  and  trivial,  the  least  given  to  worthy  things 
of  all  the  great  cities  that  have  ever  existed? 

I  ask  you  why  do  you  give  your  talents  to  a 
journalism  which  celebrates  the  prostitute  and  the 
plug-ugly,  the  freak  and  the  criminal,  the  fool  and 
the  degenerate?  Why  do  you  make  your  strongest 
appeal  to  the  low  forehead  and  the  vicious  heart? 
Why  do  you  play  the  pander,  or  connive  at  the  foul 
trade,  even  for  "the  largest  salary  ever  paid  to 
writer  or  journalist"? 

It  is  no  answer  that  you  cannot  help  the  conditions 


23o      AT  THE   SIGN   OF   THE   VAN 

of  your  work;  that  a  journalist's  business  is  to  give 
the  public  what  it  wants;  that  your  own  writing  is 
free  from  the  reproach  of  the  news  columns;  that, 
with  all  its  faults,  Yellow  Journalism  does  good  ser- 
vice to  the  people  in  defending  their  rights,  combat- 
ing and  repressing  monopolies,  trusts,  etc.,  etc. 

Few  things  in  this  world  are  wholly  good  or 
wholly  bad,  but  the  rotten  half  of  your  orange  spoils 
the  entire  fruit.  Nor  is  it  true  that  the  public — even 
the  mob,  the  many-headed  beast — would  not  accept 
a  better,  cleaner  journalism.  The  public  has  not 
corrupted  you — it  is  you  who  have  corrupted  the 
public!  You  created  the  taste  to  which  you  are  now 
obliged  to  cater  with  ever  stronger  and  ranker  stimu- 
lants. You  have  wrought  the  Circean  spell  of 
changing  the  people  into  swine,  and,  from  a  fear  of 
losing  your  vile  profit,  you  will  not  undo  the  en- 
chantment. 

As  for  the  merits  of  your  own  work,  they  are 
sufficiently  admitted  by  your  "million  readers,"  and 
through  a  fit  medium  they  might  really  count  to  some 
worthy  effect.  Your  editorials  often  convey  good, 
practical  counsels  on  life  and  conduct,  especially  with 
a  view  to  the  Main  Chance,  and  your  peculiar  brand 
of  Socialism  is  not  without  plausibility  and  appeal. 
All  this,  as  well  as  your  own  continent  habits  of 
mind,  I  freely  concede.  But  you  must  allow  that  a 
narrow  rivulet  of  fairly  clean  water, — to  which  I 
may  compare  your  own  writing, — has  desperately 


TO   A   JOURNALIST  231 

little  chance  of  keeping  its  purity  or  whatever  gift 
of  health  it  may  seek  to  convey,  when  it  is  engulfed 
and  swallowed  up  by  the  wide-rushing  sewer  of 
Yellow  Journalism. 

You  are  ambitious  to  be  known  as  a  reformer, 
you  sometimes  talk  the  vaguely  threatening  language 
of  Social  Revolution.  Let  me  invite  your  attention 
to  a  reform,  a  revolution,  which  need  cause  no  mis- 
ery or  bloodshed,  no  civic  tumult,  no  disturbance  of 
property  rights,  no  setting  of  man  against  man  or 
class  against  class — a  reform  that  will  procure  you 
a  truly  honorable  fame,  of  infinitely  higher  value 
than  that  of  being  known  as  the  "best  paid  journal- 
ist in  the  world."  I  allude  to  a  reform  of  the  kind 
of  journalism  above  considered,  which  more  and 
more  impeaches  and  infects  the  entire  newspaper 
profession  in  this  country. 


XIX 

TRIAL     BY     NEWSPAPER 

SCENE:  A  courtroom  in  the  City  of  New 
York. 
To  the  bar:  Two  reputed  horizontals 
charged  with  blackmail  and  attempted  murder. 
They  are  advantageously  placed  so  that  they  can 
make  googoo  eyes  at  the  Jury.  The  Jury  is  com- 
posed of  twelve  average  New  Yorkers,  the  intel- 
lectual type  that  one  sees  in  Subway  or  L  trains, 
buried  in  the  pages  of  the  "Daily"  or  "Evening 
Horror."  They  are  frankly  interested  in  the  sem- 
aphore work  of  the  accused. 

There  is  the  usual  crowd  of  sensation-seekers,  men 
of  various  degrees  of  loaferdom  and  women  whose 
looks  and  dress  suggest  a  strong  spiritual  kinship 
with  the  defendants.  All  are  marked  by  an  air  of 
pleased  alert  expectation,  as  at  a  play.  This  feel- 
ing is  obviously  shared  in  by  the  policemen,  court 
attendants,  reporters,  hangers  on,  etc.,  and  is  from 
time  to  time  reflected  in  the  manner  of  the  Judge,  a 
corpulent  person  of  much  apparent  good  humor.  It 
is  less  noticeable  in  the  Jury,  perhaps  because  some 

232 


TRIAL   BY    NEWSPAPER  233 

of  them  are  unused  to  their  present  situation.  The 
lawyers  for  the  defense  are  obstreperously  jocular, 
while  the  Public  Prosecutor  and  his  assistants  seem 
plunged  in  gloom. 

The  Judge:  Call  The  People  vs.  the  Happy 
Horizontales,  who  are  charged  with  attempting  to 
separate  Col.  Priapus  Spondulix  from  his  money 
and  his  life.  Are  the  defendants  in  court? 

Clerk  of  the  Court:  Please  your  Honor,  they 
are. 

The  Judge :   Let  them  be  arraigned. 

.  .  .  The  ceremony  of  arraignment  is  formally 
gone  through  with,  the  accused  meanwhile  wearing 
an  unconcerned  expression  bordering  on  amusement. 
They  smile  and  give  each  other  little  pats  of  en- 
couragement— and  their  eyes  return  constantly  to 
the  Jury. 

The  Judge:  Are  the  reporters  for  the  several 
editions  of  the  daily  papers  all  present? 

Clerk  of  the  Court:  They  are  all  here,  please 
your  Honor. 

.  .  .  Spectators  intent  on  the  press  tables,  whereat 
are  seated  various  well-known  reporters  and  special- 
ists in  "crimes  of  passion,"  whose  signed  articles 
contribute  greatly  to  the  public  enjoyment  of  crimi- 
nal trials  and  usually  influence  the  verdict. 

The  Judge:  I  ask  particularly  because  during  a 
recent  criminal  trial  the  special  representative  of  the 
"Morning  Scream"  complained  that  some  proceed- 


234      AT  THE   SIGN   OF  THE   VAN 

ings  were  had  in  his  absence,  the  circulation  of  his 
journal  being  thereby  injuriously  affected.  I  need 
hardly  say  that,  if  this  Court  knows  itself,  it  sets  the 
interests  of  the  Press  above  every  other  consider- 
ation. 

.  .  .  Murmur  of  applause  in  the  Court. 

A  pale  gentleman  with  a  high  forehead  and  a 
slightly  Hebraic  aspect,  evidently  the  representative 
of  the  "Scream,"  rises  in  his  place  at  the  reporters' 
table  and  bows  low  to  the  crowd.  Then,  nodding 
slightly  to  the  Court,  he  resumes  his  seat. 

The  Judge:  I  want  to  know  if  the  Sympathy 
Sisters  are  present,  ready  to  render  unto  the  accused 
the  tender  ministrations  which  their  sex  requires,  and 
incidentally  to  tell  all  about  it  in  the  "Evening 
Gusher."  How  barren  of  interest  and  devoid  of 
healthy  emotion  would  our  criminal  proceedings  be, 
lacking  the  cheerful  presence  and  enlightened  com- 
mentary of  these  admirable  women!  I  frankly 
avow  that  I  am  indebted  to  them  for  many  of  my 
most  applauded  rulings.  I  trust  the  Sisters  are  here 
and  placed  according  to  their  desire. 

.  .  .  Admiring  attention  directed  to  two  alert, 
youngish-looking,  though  not  strictly  young,  women 
seated  at  the  press  table.  They  smile  and  bow  to 
the  Court,  without  rising;  then  glance  reassuringly 
at  the  accused,  who  smile  back  at  them. 

The  Judge:  The  special  artists  of  the  several 
papers  will  be  afforded  every  facility  as  usual  for 


TRIAL    BY    NEWSPAPER  235 

the  pursuit  of  their  worthy  art,  so  necessary  to  the 
ends  of  justice  and  the  moral  well-being  of  the  com- 
munity. As  the  poet  says, 

"Vice  is  a  monster  of  such  hideous  mien 

As  to  be  hated  needs  but  to  be  seen." 
And  so  on — I  would  quote  the  rest,  but  my  memory 
is  bad.  Oh,  Mr.  Crayon,  I'll  thank  you  to  be  a  bit 
more  complimentary  in  sketching  the  Court  in  fu- 
ture. I'm  not  over-vain,  but  your  last  pastel  is  being 
framed  by  my  political  opponents  and  has  created 
a  bad  feeling  in  the  district. 

.  .  .  Stir  among  the  newspaper  artists  and  camera 
squad.  Mr.  Crayon,  a  pallid,  long-haired  gentle- 
man, is  identified  by  his  somewhat  sheepish  expres- 
sion. His  companions  jeer  at  him  sotto  voce. 

Clerk  of  the  Court:  Please  your  Honor,  every- 
thing has  been  arranged  for  the  artists,  and  they 
are  all  here. 

The  Judge:  Has  the  matter  of  seating  the  de- 
fendants' female  relations  been  attended  to,  so  that 
the  Jury  may  be  duly  influenced  by  their  presence 
and  emotion? 

.  .  .  Attention  directed  to  a  group  of  women 
seated  near  the  accused,  with  whom  they  occupy 
themselves  officiously  from  time  to  time. 

Clerk  of  the  Court :  Please  your  Honor,  we  have 
admitted  as  many  females  as  we  dare,  without  in- 
conveniencing the  Court. 

The  Judge :   The  Court  will  cheerfully  waive  its 


236      AT  THE   SIGN   OF   THE   VAN 

convenience  in  deference  to  the  voice  of  Nature  and 
the  sentiment  of  the  public  Press.  .  .  . 

Subdued  murmur  of  approval  in  the  Court  Room. 

The  Judge :  Oh,  yes — there  was  something  else — 
I  was  quite  sure  there  was  something  else.  Is  the 
Prosecution  ready  to  go  on  with  the  case? 

The  Public  Prosecutor:  If  it  please  the  Court, 
the  cards  have  been  stacked  against  us — I  beg  the 
Court's  pardon,  I  would  say  that  there  is  the  usual 
plant  here  in  favor  of  these  defendants.  Further- 
more, I  realize  that  it's  a  waste  of  time  and  money 
to  try  to  convict  a  woman  of  a  crime  of  this  sort, 
unless  she's  over  sixty  and  cross-eyed  or  hump- 
backed. The  newspapers  simply  will  not  stand  for 
a  conviction.  However,  I  am  unwilling  to  be  rated 
as  an  enemy  of  the  Press,  and  I  shall  therefore  go 
on  with  this  case,  though,  if  your  Honor  please,  I 
can't  see  how  The  People  are  going  to  have  a  run 
for  their  money. 

Counsel  for  the  Defense  (rising  excitedly)  :  I  ob- 
ject to  the  Prosecutor's  remarks  as  reflecting  upon 
the  integrity  of  the  defense,  and  I  demand  that  he 
withdraw  them. 

The  Public  Prosecutor  (ironically)  :  Withdraw 
nothing ! 

The  Judge  (with  some  heat)  :  I  sustain  the  ob- 
jection and  order  the  Prosecutor  to  withdraw  his 
offensive  remarks.  (In  a  milder  tone)  Come,  now, 
boys,  let's  be  fair  and  easy.  We're  all  here  in  obe- 


TRIAL   BY    NEWSPAPER  237 

dience  to  the  Higher  Law  of  the  Newspaper — 
(outburst  of  approval  in  the  court  which  the  Judge 
represses  with  raised  hand) .  As  I  say,  since  that's 
what  we're  here  for,  we  may  as  well  be  decent 
about  it. 

The  Public  Prosecutor:  Seeing  that  your  Honor 
puts  the  matter  in  that  way,  I  submit  to  the  will  of 
the  Court  and  withdraw  the  words  that  have  given 
offense,  while  reserving  my  private  opinion. 

The  Judge:  Well,  to  be  sure,  that's  very  hand- 
some of  you,  Mr.  Prosecutor,  and  I  trust  the  news- 
papers will  not  be  too  hard  on  you  for  your  private 
opinion.  We  are  all  right  now,  I  think.  Let  the 
trial  proceed. 


XX 

A     FEUD 

IN  the  majority  of  marriages  some  form  of  an- 
tagonism grows  up  between  husband  and  wife, 
and  in  course  of  time  produces  a  fixed  aliena- 
tion. Often  a  very  little  thing  in  the  beginning,  and 
capable  of  being  soothed  away  with  a  caress  or 
forgotten  in  a  smile,  it  waxes  imperceptibly  under 
repeated  differences,  quarrels,  contradictions,  cold- 
nesses, reconciliations  entered  into  with  a  sub-con- 
scious purpose  of  falling  out  again; — in  a  word,  all 
that  goes  to  create  and  confirm  the  feud  in  marriage 
of  which  Balzac  was  the  great  modern  discoverer. 
No  class  or  station  in  life  is  exempt  from  it,  no 
marriage,  however  guaranteed  by  priestly  benedic- 
tions; no  match,  however  fortunate  in  the  things  that 
commonly  make  for  happiness;  no  consent  of  hearts, 
however  absolute ;  no  mutual  love,  however  firm  and 
well  founded. 

As  a  tiny  grain  of  sand  lodged  somewhere  in  the 
body,  and  overlooked  by  the  cleansing  agents  of 
Nature,  will  in  course  of  time  fester  and  threaten 
the  house  of  life  itself,  so  the  small  seed  of  hate  is 

238 


A   FEUD  239 

hidden  deep  in  hearts  that  should  love,  until  the 
years  bring  it  to  a  tragic  fruition. 

But  marriage  is  a  very  fascinating  and  even  neces- 
sary relation;  I  do  not  imagine  that  the  possibility 
of  feud  will  ever  deter  young  persons  from  entering 
into  it.  As  somebody  said  a  few  thousand  years 
ago,  this  is  a  game  which  everyone  is  bound  to  play 
for  himself.  Youth  has  to  learn,  and  even  Age 
sometimes  must  have  its  lesson.  This  is  perhaps 
the  one  enduring  and  unchanging  feature  of  the  hu- 
man comedy. 

I  heard  lately  of  a  case  of  unusually  interesting 
matrimonial  feud.*  Not  the  least  tragic  feature  of 
it  is  that,  the  husband  being  dead,  the  widow,  actu- 
ated, as  she  believes,  by  the  very  worthiest  motives, 
still  wages  her  end  of  the  quarrel  over  a  truceless 
grave. 

When  we  dress  up  Rancor  and  Wounded  Pride  in 
the  habiliments  of  the  Christian  virtues,  Duty  and 
Charity,  it  is  quite  wonderful  to  what  issues  they 
lead  us.  Virtuous  women  are  somewhat  prone  to 
playing  this  little  comedy  at  the  instigation  of  the 
Devil.  Ah!  who  so  unforgiving  as  a  virtuous 
Christian  conventional  woman? 

This  woman  certainly  believes  that  the   feud  is 

*This  narrative  is  potentially,  not  literally,  true  in  certain 
details,  and  no  aspersion  is  meant  to  be  conveyed  to  the  prejudice 
of  any  living  person. — AUTHOR. 


240      AT  THE   SIGN   OF  THE   VAN 

buried  with  her  husband;  she  would  shrink  in  hor- 
ror at  the  idea  of  perpetuating  it  by  any  conscious 
word  or  act.  Of  course,  she  will  say  that  she  was 
always  right,  now  that  he  is  dead,  as  she  never 
failed  to  say  it  whilst  he  lived,  without  ever  causing 
that  impassive  face  of  his  to  drop  its  fine  mask. — Is 
that  what  you  call  carrying  on  the  feud? — hoity, 
toity!  .  .  . 

At  the  outset  they  were  a  fairly  well-matched 
couple,  belonging  to  the  class  of  fortunate  Amer- 
icans. Though  she  was  very  rich,  his  own  means 
were  respectable,  while  his  family  was  even  better 
than  hers,  and  his  abilities  joined  to  his  noble  and 
engaging  personality  quite  balanced  the  scale,  in  the 
view  of  the  worldly-minded.  So  there  was  nothing 
in  the  circumstances  of  this  union  upon  which  to  pre- 
dict or  postulate  a  feud. 

But  men  often  find  their  Ideal,  their  Purpose  in 
life,  after  marriage;  women  rarely.  I  mean,  of 
course,  a  Purpose,  an  Ideal  that  quite  conflicts  with 
what  has  gone  before.  Marriage  is  thus  the  begin- 
ning for  some  exceptional  men  and  the  end  for  most 
women. 

This  man  found  his  true  self  only  after  ten  years 
of  marriage  and  of  a  comfortable,  conventional  life. 
Like  Tolstoy,  he  perceived  at  length  the  vanity  and 
selfishness  of  his  life  cushioned  on  every  side  and 
defended  by  all  the  means  and  precautions  of  wealth 
against  the  hard  realities  which  have  always  nur- 


A    FEUD  241 

tured  the  true  leaders  and  prophets  of  the  race.  His 
soul,  awakened,  aspired  to  nobler  things:  beyond 
all  this  clinging,  lapping,  enervating  luxury  he  looked 
to  the  stern  discipline  of  the  spirit  whereby  the 
heights  are  conquered;  the  walls  of  class  and  caste 
faded  away  and  he  saw  the  Vision  of  Humanity; 
the  buzz  and  small  talk  of  society  died  as  his  ear 
became  attuned  to  the  oracles  of  God. 

Like  Tolstoy,  also,  he  determined  to  make  a  real 
renunciation  of  his  worldly  position;  but  in  this  he 
failed,  the  chains  of  convention  being  too  strong  for 
him.  These  chains,  this  convention  were  personi- 
fied in  his  wife,  who  could  see  nothing  but  madness 
in  his  new  ideas  and  resisted  them  to  the  bitter  end. 
She  had  thoroughly  learned  that  creed  of  selfish- 
ness, always  the  religion  of  the  rich  and  sheltered, 
which  attributes  to  Divine  Providence  the  gifts  of 
wealth  and  social  position.  She  returned  thanks  to 
God  in  her  fashionable  church  for  these  material 
blessings,  and  she  was  fully  decided  not  to  flout  the 
Giver  by  yielding  up  her  smallest  title  in  the  same. 

So  here  was  the  feud  betwixt  these  two — not  ex- 
hibiting itself  in  violent  quarrels  and  recriminations, 
because  they  were  exceedingly  well-bred  persons  and 
had  an  anxious  care  of  the  proprieties,  living  as 
they  did  in  the  glass  house  of  the  rich,  surrounded 
by  servants,  and  with  children,  too,  of  whom  they 
were  bound  to  be  mindful.  A  real  feud  not  the  less, 
though  politely  masked  and  restrained;  a  feud  that 


242      AT  THE   SIGN   OF   THE   VAN 

deepened  and  widened  with  the  years,  since  there  can 
be  no  true  union  where  different  and  conflicting  ideals 
are  pursued;  a  feud  that  is  not  yet  healed,  though 
the  grave  has  closed  over  one  party  to  it. 

For  this  man  really  became  great  in  a  way  ab- 
horrent to  his  wife  and  the  circle  in  which  he  osten- 
sibly belonged.  His  renunciation  was  genuine, 
though  he  continued,  to  all  appearance,  to  live  the 
life  of  the  rich;  the  truth  being  that  he  was  with 
them  but  not  of  them.  He  dined  frugally  as  a  her- 
mit at  his  luxurious  table.  He  absented  himself 
from  his  wife's  receptions,  so  far  as  he  could,  and 
he  took  little  or  no  part  in  that  round  of  inane  enter- 
tainment consecrated  to  fashion.  He  hated  the 
wealth-worship  which,  in  default  of  an  aristocratic 
tradition,  supplies  a  sort  of  spiritual  bond  to  that 
limited  American  class  which  significantly  calls  itself 
SOCIETY.  Even  more  he  despised  the  snobbishness, 
that  bastard,  parasitic  growth  of  one  or  two  genera- 
tions of  money,  which  is  poisoning  social  life  in  this 
country.  Like  Balzac's  hero,  he  shook  his  fist  at 
that  favored,  insolent  society,  and  vowed  war 
against  it. 

Meantime  his  name  was  becoming  known  in  a 
world  totally  and  abysmally  different.  His  writings, 
which  drew  a  certain  strength  and  pungency  from 
the  conditions  of  his  life,  were  being  widely  read 
and  circulated.  Within  ten  years  from  the  time  of 
his  awakening  he  saw  himself  accepted  as  a  leader 


A    FEUD  243 

of  that  wide-scattered  but  devoted  contingent,  that 
Forlorn  Hope  of  humanity,  whose  mission  it  is  to 
carry  on  the  hopeless  battle  of  lost  causes  and  to 
represent  the  idealism  of  the  down-trodden.  His 
name  became  a  watchword  in  the  camps  of  insur- 
rection; was  uttered  with  tears  and  blessings  in  the 
secret  conclaves  of  Russian  terrorists;  by  Polish 
patriots  ready  to  hurl  themselves  upon  certain  death 
for  their  cause;  by  Spanish  plotters  against  throne 
and  caste;  by  those  fiery  spirits  everywhere  that  seek 
to  drink  of  the  heady  wine  of  revolution.  And  yet 
this  man  counseled  no  armed  attack  upon  authority 
and  advocated  no  violence:  the  simple  fact  that  he 
rejected  the  system  to  which  the  ruling  forces  of  the 
world  lend  their  support, — in  government,  in  relig- 
ion, in  the  establishment  of  caste,  in  the  distribution 
of  wealth, — caused  him  to  be  taken  up  and  borne  on 
the  shield  by  the  so-called  "enemies  of  Society." 

In  the  midst  of  all  this  he  died  very  suddenly  and 
was  passionately  mourned  by  his  admirers  and  fol- 
lowers in  many  lands.  The  class  to  which  he  nor- 
mally belonged  in  this  country  paid  as  little  heed  to 
his  death  as  to  his  life. 

Now  this  man  was  growing  at  the  time  of  his 
death,  has  gone  on  growing  since,  and  will  continue 
to  grow.  Lovers  of  his  memory  in  far  distant 
places  have  set  themselves  to  the  task  of  gathering 
up  every  written  word  of  his,  in  order  to  complete 
his  legacy.  They  see  in  him  a  great  soul  whose  every 


244      AT  THE   SIGN   OF  THE   VAN 

utterance  was  precious  and  treasurable;  a  servant 
and,  in  a  sense,  a  martyr  of  the  Ideal.  They  say 
his  life-work  was  only  just  beginning  when  he  died; 
that  it  is  living  and  potential  in  his  message  which 
remains. 

His  always  consistent  widow  is  not  in  sympathy 
with  this  view, — oh,  quite  the  contrary!  Moreover, 
these  testimonies  to  the  greatness  of  the  man  irri- 
tate her  as  confirming  his  side  of  the  feud.  She  re- 
fuses to  give  up  certain  manuscripts  which  he  left, 
saying  that  their  publication  can  only  do  harm.  His 
family,  she  declares,  is  anything  but  flattered  by  the 
sort  of  posthumous  attention  he  is  receiving — she 
had  always  warned  him  of  it!  So  she  keeps  under 
lock  and  key, — nay,  perhaps  has  destroyed, — the 
writings  which,  it  may  be,  contain  the  perfect  fruit 
of  the  man's  thought,  the  quintessence  of  his  spirit, 
the  one  thing  that  he  longed  most  to  say  and  that 
in  some  happy  moment  achieved  expression. 

She  applauds  herself  for  her  courage  and  resolu- 
tion in  resisting  the  entreaties  of  his  friends,  and 
puts  it  all  to  the  credit  of  her  own  virtue.  But  it 
really  is  the  feud  .  .  .  and  the  joy  of  having  the 
last  word! 


r(TO   EDEN   PHILLPOTTS) 

BOOK    THE    THIRD 

ADVENTURES   IN    LETTERS 


!TT"y7r"7:/O   has   not  written   it  over  and  over 
l/j/  again,  and  then   torn  it  up,  and  still  re- 

7  r  newed    the    effort    with   prayers    and 

tears, — he  knows  you  not,  ye  Heavenly  Powers! 


BALLADE  OF  MANY  AUTHORS 

ALACK  for  the  fate  that  comes  to  all 
Brain-sicklied  wights   of  the   scribbling 
trade: 
Sib  are  they  to  Oblivion's  pall, 

A  circle  in  water,  dust  and  shade. 
Was  it  for  this  such  stress  they  made 

To  scale  the  slippery  peaks  of  fame, 
Only  to  see  their  visions  fade — 

Back  to  the  night  from  whence  they  came? 

Dear  God!  the  struggle  through  barren  years, 

The  hope  deferred  and  the  waiting  long, 
And,  for  a  guerdon  of  all  their  tears, 

A  briefer  date  than  an  idle  song. 
For  not  to  these  do  the  heights  belong, 

Where  the  throned  bards  made  glad  acclaim, 
But  Charon's  curse  and  his  bitter  thong — 

Back  to  the  night  from  whence  they  came. 
247 


248       AT   THE   SIGN   OF   THE   VAN 

For  this  they  bartered  their  earthly  peace, 

And  let  the  sweetness  of  life  go  by; 
Nor  recked  tho  they  saw  the  moons  decrease, 

And  the  tides  of  being  run  scant  and  dry: — 
Yea,  even  when  Death  himself  drew  nigh, 

Him  would  they  welcome,  nor  harshly  blame, 
Seeing  the  Portal  of  Victory — 

Back  to  the  night  from  whence  they  camel 


Tell  me,  ye  dupes  of  an  empty  dream, 

Is  life  no  more  than  a  pedant's  hour, 
To  spoil  of  paper  a  hasty  ream, 

Then  quick  to  bed  with  the  earthworm  dour? 
Eheu!  mislikes  me  your  sermon  sour, 

With  its  bellman's  ending,  aye  the  same : 
Fain  would  I  take  at  least  a  flower 

Back  to  the  night  from  whence  I  came. 


Poor  fools,  that  stew  in  your  own  vain  sweat, 

Nor  ever  cease  to  swither  and  swink, 
Pray,  what  is  the  recompense  you'll  get, 

When  your  red  blood  turns  to  water  and  ink? 
A  bit  of  immortal  fame,  you  think — 

JEre  perennius — that's  the  game? 
But  lo  !  you're  snuffed  out  quick  as  a  wink — 

Back  to  the  night  from  whence  you  came. 


Prince,  be  you  wise  in  your  golden  prime: 
Live  you  and  love  while  the  pulses  flame, 

Till  careless  you  pass — sans  prose,   sans  rhyme — 
Back  to  the  night  from  whence  you  came. 


II 

PASSION 

IN  the  course  of  some  remarks  on  Daunon,  a 
French  Academician  who,  though  little  known 
to  history,  yet  played  a  great  part  in  the 
events  of  his  time, — the  time  of  the  French  Revolu- 
tion,— Heine  makes  the  following  acute  observation : 

"Why  does  not  his  name  flourish  as  brilliantly  in 
our  memories  as  those  of  so  many  of  his  contem- 
poraries who  played  a  far  less  important  part? 
What  did  he  want  to  attain  to  celebrity?  I  will  say 
it  in  one  word — it  was  passion.  It  is  only  by  some 
manifestation  of  passion  that  men  ever  become  cele- 
brated in  the  world.  A  single  deed,  a  single  word 
will  suffice,  but  it  must  bear  the  most  passionate 
impress." 

Heine  has  here  enunciated  a  truth  worthy  of  his 
penetrative  genius.  Passion  is  the  word — the  di- 
vine fury  that  possesses  a  man  when,  like  Hamlet, 
he  finds  the  world  out  of  joint  and  rages  to  set  it 
right. 

Certainly  this  is  a  part  allotted  to  but  few  men, 
for  God  is  very  careful  in  the  choice  of  His  leading 

250 


PASSION  251 

actors  and  prepares  their  entrances  and  exits,  nay, 
their  very  lives,  with  a  care  that  appears  throughout 
all  history.  We  are  not  to  confound  with  these 
agents  of  destiny  mere  madmen  like  the  fool  who 
fired  the  Ephesian  dome.  But  passion,  true  passion, 
is  the  mark  by  which  we  shall  know  the  potential 
players  in  the  great  human  drama.  This  passion  is 
a  consuming  fire  that  spares  neither  him  who  bears 
it  in  his  breast,  nor  the  proper  victims  of  his  wrath. 
All  perish — yet  shall  the  world  never  forget  where 
the  flame  divine  has  blazed! 

This  remark  of  Heine's  has  just  occurred  to  me 
in  turning  over — what  do  you  think? — a  volume  of 
Mr.  Howells's  literary  reminiscences.  Few  books 
are  more  charming  if  you  will  but  give  yourself  to 
that  style  so  exquisitely  intime,  yet  without  a  trace 
of  the  egotism  which  offends.  Mr.  Howells's  literary 
expression  is  a  real  fons  leporis,  a  perpetual  spring 
of  pleasantness  and  elegance.  In  the  mere  respect 
of  good  breeding  it  shames  the  present  civilization 
of  this  country.  Mr.  Howells's  fine  suavity,  his 
otlum  cum  dignitate  which  very  nearly  suggests 
Renan,  might  well  be  commended  to  his  aspiring 
countrymen  and  countrywomen  who  are  trying  to 
build  up  a  social  legend  in  this  Republic.  The  good 
manners  of  this  respected  American  author  almost 
constitute  an  anachronism. 

But,  alas!  this  admirable  writer,  this  unwearied 
analyist  of  middle-class  emotions,  this  patient  his- 


252       AT   THE   SIGN   OF   THE   VAN 

torian  of  what  we  may  call  the  still-life  of  undaring 
souls,  lacks  the  one  thing  which  Heine  deemed  es- 
sential to  a  true  celebrity — passion. 

If  Mr.  Howells  ever  had  a  moment  of  real  pas- 
sion, he  forgot  to  make  a  literary  record  of  it  and 
thus  missed  his  chance  of  immortality. 

Politeness  and  style  will  not  carry  his  baggage  of 
eighty-six  books  beyond  the  next  generation.  They 
will  presently  be  superseded  by  Mrs.  Croly's 
works  on  decorum  and  the  etiquette  of  afternoon 
teas. 

Robert  Louis  Stevenson  in  a  famous  piece  of 
writing  applauds  the  fellow  who,  fearing  not  death 
so  much  as  a  barren  and  inglorious  old  age,  risks 
all  on  one  throw,  dares  something  great, — i.  e.,  pas- 
sionate,— and,  though  he  lose  his  life  in  the  venture, 
yet  in  the  old  classic  way  somehow  shoots  up  again 
and  becomes  a  constellation ! 

Heroism  of  this  kind  is  not  to  the  liking  of  Mr. 
Howells,  and  is  especially  repugnant  to  his  literary 
system. 

There  is  not  one  generous  blaze,  one  leaping  up 
of  the  fire  in  any  of  his  books.  Sometimes  you 
would  swear  that  you  heard  the  sputter  of  a  match 
and  saw  a  little  blue  flame,  but  the  conflagration 
never  takes  place — Mr.  Howells  is  always  ready 
with  the  extinguisher. 

I  am  sorry  for  Mr.  Howells  and  his  lamentable 
count  of  books,  but  why  in  God's  name  did  he  never 


PASSION  253 

let  go  of  himself?  Mark  Twain  has  often  shown 
him  how,  and  Mark  Twain  will  be  floated  down  the 
ages  by  that  artistic  life-preserver  which  Mr.  How- 
ells  has  always  politely,  but  firmly,  declined  to  use, — 
Passion! 


Ill 

ON    WRITING 

READING  and  writing  do  not  mix  happily 
for  me.  I  find  it  easier  and  more  profitable 
to  do  one  thing  or  the  other  at  a  time. 
Single  tasks,  like  single  passions,  are  less  wearing. 

Some  persons  with  a  special  and  enviable  facility 
of  mental  detachment  are  not  so  conditioned,  but  I 
think  my  rule  holds  for  most.  An  eager  and  ductile 
mind  that  quickly  takes  color  and  sympathy  cannot 
give  itself  to  another,  if  it  have  work  of  its  own 
to  do.  My  book  is  a  love  affair  or  nothing  to  me. 
I  set  up  no  rivalry  to  my  author  by  composing  along 
with  him.  I  am  a  good  subject  and  pretend  no 
false  rights  in  his  kingdom.  My  own  claims  (how- 
ever small)  lie  perdu  and  unasserted.  I  hear  him 
fairly  to  the  end — he  has  naught  to  complain  of  his 
audience.  These,  I  may  be  allowed  to  say,  are  the 
marks  of  a  good  reader;  one  who  keeps  terms  with 
the  civil  community  of  books. 

Turn  and  turn  about,  however.  I  also  like  to 
have  the  ball  in  my  hand,  to  be  humored  and  de- 
ferred to  when  the  business  is  of  writing.  Then 

254 


ON   WRITING  255 

will  I  not  lose  myself  in  another's  mind  or  treacle 
my  mental  legs  in  the  sweetest  and  most  seductive 
of  his  pages. 

Under  which  king,  Bezonian?  No  double  loyalty, 
no  divided  allegiance  is  now  possible,  be  the  ques- 
tion of  the  greatest.  Homer  himself,  that  royal 
brigantine,  will  I  not  salute  when  struggling  with 
my  own  tiny  craft  in  perilous  waters! 

Great  authors  have  told  us  so  much  about  the 
pleasure  of  mental  creation  that  one  may  have  leave 
to  wonder  why  they  should  expect  to  be  paid  for  it 
(some  have  rather  insisted  on  this  point!)  I  sus- 
pect there  is  not  a  little  coquetry  in  this  favorite 
assumption  of  authors,  and  I'm  not  sure  that  the 
very  great — greater — greatest  of  them  enjoys  the 
work  as  fully  as  he  would  have  us  (especially  the 
ladies)  believe.  The  heats  of  inspiration,  of  course; 
but  how  often  are  they  preceded  by  long  fits  of 
languid  and  spiritless  inaction;  the  mind  lying  sul- 
len and  infecund,  often  in  the  most  puerile  terror 
and  despair;  the  impotent  genius  chewing  the  bitter- 
sweet cud  of  past  triumphs  and  happy  labors  I  • 

And  granting  the  heats,  those  fortunate  apothe- 
oses of  the  artist  (perhaps  they  mean  only  the  work- 
man and  his  tools  in  prime  condition),  what  stern 
labor  must  be  done  in  cold  blood  upon  the  products 
thereof!  What  trivialities,  stupidities,  ineptitudes, 
must  be  deleted  from  the  "inspired"  copy!  What 
unaccountable  lapses  in  the  logic  of  things  corrected ! 


256      AT  THE   SIGN   OF  THE  VAN 

What  slips  of  memory  that  would  shame  a  school- 
boy! Truly,  this  Minerva  was  not  born  full-pano- 
plied from  her  parent's  brain  (pace  the  Great  Au- 
thor in  conversation  with  the  ladies!)  Happy  the 
writer  who  is  himself  at  once  the  kindest  and  the 
most  unsparing  of  the  critics  of  his  work! 

"I  know  what  pleasure  is,"  finely  said  Robert 
Louis,  "for  I  have  done  good  work."  And  indeed 
when  the  mind  bends  eagerly  to  its  task,  and  the  pen 
has  to  canter  to  keep  up  with  it,  and  the  road 
stretches  clean  away  without  a  flaw  or  a  break  for 
miles,  why  here  is  somewhat  to  tune  a  man  to  the 
top  of  his  spirit  and  make  him  in  love  with  the  oft- 
trodden  yet  ever  uncharted  realm  of  intellectual 
adventure ! 

The  admirable  Daudet  gives  this  charming  ac- 
count of  a  period  of  productive  labor  in  his  "Thirty 
Years  of  Paris."  I  am  sure  you  will  thank  me  for 
borrowing  it,  and  I  am  glad  therewith  to  lend  some 
grace  to  my  own  poor  observations. 

"The  best  guarded,  the  most  carefully  closed  of 
our*  Paris  houses  are  yet  open  to  many  unforeseen 
distractions.  ...  In  the  country  the  space  is  vast, 
the  air  fresh,  time  seems  endless;  and,  free  to  dis- 
pose at  will  of  the  long  days  and  of  self,  one  feels, 
above  all,  the  security  of  this  independence,  the  re- 
assuring sensation  of  being  really  alone  with  one's 
idea.  It  is  an  orgy  of  thought  and  of  work.  I 
never  felt  it  more  so  than  when  writing  'Jack.'  This 


ON   WRITING  257 

time  of  unceasing  production  has  left  me  delightful 
memories.  Long  before  daylight  I  was  installed  at 
my  white  wood  table  close  to  my  bed  in  the  dressing 
room.  I  wrote  by  lamplight,  beneath  a  skylight 
pearled  with  dew,  which  reminded  me  of  my  early 
days  of  poverty.  Cats  and  other  roamers  of  the 
night  prowled  upon  the  roof,  scratching  the  tiles, 
an  owl  hooted,  cattle  lowed  in  the  warm  straw  of  a 
stable  close  by;  and  without  glancing  at  the  alarm 
clock  ticking  in  front  of  me,  without  lifting  my  eyes 
to  the  gradual  lightening  of  the  dawn,  I  knew  the 
hour  by  the  crowing  of  the  cocks,  by  the  sounds  of 
movement  in  the  neighboring  farm,  whence  rose  a 
clatter  of  wooden  shoes,  of  bucket-handles  falling 
as  the  beasts  were  watered;  gruff  voices  hailing  each 
other  in  the  gray  of  early  dawn ;  and  the  clamor,  the 
cackling,  and  flapping  of  heavy  wings.  Then,  upon 
the  road,  the  sleepy  tramp  of  work-people  passing 
by  in  gangs;  and,  a  little  later,  a  flock  of  children 
running  to  the  school  three  ^niles  off,  sounding  like 
the  passing  flight  of  a  covey  of  partridges." 


Sometimes  when  Emerson  wished  to  come  to 
collar-and-elbow  terms  with  the  Over-Soul  he  would 
flee  from  his  quiet  home  at  Concord  to  a  hotel  in 
Boston.  There,  alone  and  undisturbed  in  the  heart 
of  the  big  town,  he  often  found  the  inspiration  de- 
nied him  in  his  country  retreat.  And  always  he 


25 8       AT  THE   SIGN   OF   THE   VAN 

came  back  cheerful  and  smiling  to  Mrs.  Emerson, 
with  a  good-sized  wad  of  copy  in  his  gripsack; 
happy  as  any  man  should  be  who  gets  a  due  profit 
of  his  natural  vocation.  To  realize  that  there  is 
sap  in  it  yet,  that  we  are  not  becoming  the  snuff 
o'  younger  spirits,  is  the  best  satisfaction  a  man  can 
have  who  lives  the  life  of  the  mind.  The  good 
wife  never  suspected  Another  Woman  as  the  occa- 
sion of  these  sudden  flights  of  the  Philosopher — she 
knew  it  was  the  Idea.  And,  be  it  said,  the  Idea  is 
more  elusive  and  capricious  than  any  woman — (the 
thought  is  mine,  not  Waldo's,  who  took  a  somewhat 
negligible  view  of  the  gentler  sex).  .  .  . 

Perhaps  Mrs.  Emerson  broke  in  upon  the  great 
man  too  frequently  in  order  to  ask  him  how  he  was 
getting  on — even  the  best  ordered  wives  are  secretly 
jealous  of  the  Muse.  However  that  may  have  been, 
I  think  there  is  virtue  in  Emerson's  plan.  The  town 
is  provocative  of  thought,  if  you  be  in  it  but  not  of 
it;  the  mind  is  stirred  to  action  as  by  sympathy  with 
the  great  throbbing  human  machine.  For  books  are 
human  and  made  for  humans — I  doubt  if  ever  a 
book  beloved  of  the  world  came  out  of  a  desert. 
It  has  been  pointed  out,  by  the  way,  how  Steven- 
son's invention  failed  him  in  his  South  Sea  solitudes. 

I  tried  not  long  ago  to  write  (in  my  nibbling 
fashion)  during  a  vacation  sojourn  in  a  rural  place, 
utterly  free  from  distraction;  but  had  small  profit 
of  the  time.  The  eye  is  ever  seduced  by  a  wide 


ON   WRITING  259 

prospect  of  green  fields;  thought  becomes  diffuse 
and  concentration  painful;  the  mind  dreams  and  is 
lost  in  the  visible  vastness  of  Nature.  Finally,  I 
conclude  that  Emerson  was  right  in  this  as  in  most 
things.  The  Idea  is  a  cockney  calling  for  ale  and 
chimney  pots,  and  for  what  an  inspired  Urbanite 
has  named  "the  sweet  security  of  streets." 


STYLE    AND    THE    MAN 

IT  was  no  less  modest  a  person  than  myself  who 
first  had  the  honor  of  remarking  that  nothing 
makes  a  man  so  hated  as  the  possession  of  a 
true  literary  style.     God  has  sent  me  no  lack  of 
enemies — and  you  may  account  for  them  as  you 
please.      (If  this  be  treason,  look  up  your  Patrick 
Henry!) 

I  raise  the  point  now  apropos  of  the  best  known, 
many  think  the  greatest,  living  writer,  Rudyard  Kip- 
ling. Some  finicky  persons  would  indeed  hold  him 
as  an  exception,  being  without  style,  as  they  con- 
tend, in  the  regular  sense  and  understanding  of  the 
term  or  quality.  However,  this  will  not  serve  to 
exclude  Mr.  Kipling,  because  a  true  definition  of 
style  is  "adequacy  of  expression."  Now  there 
manifestly  never  was  expression  more  adequate  than 
his,  either  in  prose  or  verse,  when  he  is  equal  to 
himself. 

Is  this,  then,  the  reason  that  he  is  hated  so  cor- 
dially by  artistic  and  literary  folk?  Admiring  his 
work  as  I  do  and  longing  to  hear  intimately  of  the 

260 


STYLE    AND   THE    MAN  261 

man  who  has  done  so  much  for  us  all,  I  have  for 
years  been  seeking  personal,  first-hand  impressions, 
estimates,  appreciations,  what  you  will,  of  the  man 
Kipling.  It  has  been  my  fortune,  good  or  bad,  to 
meet  a  number  of  persons  who  had  been  able  to 
get  near  enough  to  him  for  such  familiar  observa- 
tion. A  few  of  these  persons  were  uncommonly 
well  qualified  for  such  an  office,  trained  observers 
of  life  and  character  like  Kipling  himself.  I  could 
not  propose  to  myself  any  reasonable  ground  for 
bias  in  their  judgment  or  error  in  their  perception. 
But  I  have  already  anticipated  the  verdict.  To  put 
it  quite  plainly,  they  hadn't  a  good  word  for  him. 
There  was  nothing  to  his  talk — not  a  hint  of  the 
magic  that  lies  across  so  many  pages  or  is  condensed 
into  so  many  of  the  aptest  and  most  striking  epithets 
in  literature.  Pompous,  self-conceited,  snobbish, 
self-conscious,  priggish,  banal,  peevish  and  fractious, 
without  a  visible  ray  of  the  redeeming  kindliness  of 
genius  or  even  a  hint  of  his  thaumaturgic  mental 
power — this  is  what  they  told  me  of  the  man  who 
has  taught  us  all  so  much  about  men  and  women — 
who  may  be  said  to  have  added  a  new  chapter  to 
the  Book  of  the  Heart. 

Are  such  contradictions  possible?  you  ask. 

Undoubtedly.  Take  a  few  instances  at  random. 
Congreve,  saluted  as  a  great  dramatist,  preferred 
the  glory  of  a  man  of  fashion.  Goldsmith  "wrote 
like  an  angel  and  talked  like  a  poor  Poll";  he  was 


262       AT  THE   SIGN   OF   THE   VAN 

vain  and  weak  and  foolish.  Sterne  was  a  foul  sen- 
sual hypocrite.  Byron  was  as  vain  of  his  dandyism 
as  of  his  rank  or  his  verse.  Balzac  hungered  for 
the  fame  of  a  man  about  town.  Dickens,  who 
"never  wrote  a  word  that  could  call  up  a  blush  of 
shame  to  the  cheek  of  innocence,"  wound  up  with  a 
painful  domestic  scandal;  also,  he  was  a  good  deal 
of  a  home-tyrant,  even  according  to  his  idolater 
Yates.  We  know  now  that  Thackeray,  the  stern 
satirist,  loved  another  man's  wife  for  many  years 
(though  no  poaching  is  alleged)  ;  worse  yet,  that  he 
told  only  the  truth  in  confessing  himself  akin  to  the 
snobs  whom  he  so  brilliantly  castigated.  Our  own 
Bret  Harte,  upon  the  success  of  his  books  in  Eng- 
land, took  up  his  residence  there  and  became,  espe- 
cially to  his  own  countrymen,  quite  the  most  odious 
and  offensive  snob  that  the  Mother  Country  ever 
acquired  from  us.  And  that  is  in  its  way  as  notable 
a  distinction  as  his  achievements  in  fiction. 

So  you  see  there  is  good  literary  code  and  prece- 
dent for  the  views  of  Kipling  set  forth  above,  un- 
welcome and  disagreeable  as  they  are.  But,  mind 
you,  I  don't  accept  them  for  myself.  I  incline  to 
my  favorite,  perhaps  original,  theory,  suggested  in 
the  beginning, — that  both  the  difficulty  and  the  ex- 
planation are  involved  in  Mr.  Kipling's  wonderful 
style. 

Thackeray  would  never  admit,  in  spite  of  the 
whimsical  confession  above  alluded  to,  that  a  snob 


STYLE    AND    THE    MAN  263 

could  under  any  circumstances  write  like  a  gentle- 
man. Now  it  must  be  allowed  that  Kipling  has  so 
written  from  time  to  time,  and  even  like  a  "gentle- 
man unafraid."  .  .  . 

To  extend  the  personal  instance:  the  question 
whether  an  author's  character  may  be  divined  from 
his  style  is  one  of  extreme  and  perilous  nicety,  in- 
volving many  contradictions.  Thus,  on  the  basis  of 
some  scandalous  revelations  by  Maupassant's  valet 
in  a  book  of  memoirs  recently  published,  that  famous 
writer  is  believed  to  have  fallen  into  habits  of  erotic 
degeneracy  and  perversion  which  resulted  in  his 
mental  breakdown  and  untimely  death.  This  mon- 
strous fable  has  been  refuted  by  Paul  Bourget  and 
other  intimates  of  the  dead  artist,  and  it  is  unques- 
tionably without  real  foundation.  But — and  this  is 
the  core  of  the  matter — all  excess  is  related  and  may 
lead  to  the  same  effects.  The  kind  does  not  mat- 
ter so  much  as  the  degree:  drink  or  worry  or  over- 
work are  different  roads  to  the  same  goal.  Genius, 
says  Balzac,  finds  as  short  a  road  as  dissipation  to 
the  madhouse  and  the  hospital.  Maupassant  felt 
that  his  brain  was  hypertrophied  from  constant  pro- 
duction. This  should  be  considered  along  with  his 
famous  admission,  in  a  letter  to  Marie  Bashkirtseff, 
that  "women  were  his  passion."  His  writings,  or 
the  greater  part  of  them,  tell  the  same  story.  And 
that  story  is  surely  tragical  enough  without  import- 
ing into  it  elements  of  needless  horror  and  infamy. 


264      AT  THE   SIGN   OF  THE  VAN 

Yet  it  may  not  be  denied  that  there  was  a  certain 
tragic  fitness  in  the  fate  of  Maupassant.  No  writer 
has  ever  made  women  so  absorbingly  his  study — 
they  were  his  passion  in  art  as  in  life.  Perhaps  no 
writer  has  unveiled  with  so  firm  a  hand  the  darker 
side  of  their  psychology.  Again,  in  art  as  in  life, 
he  stayed  not  long  with  any  mistress;  but  most  of 
them  live  with  such  an  intensity  of  life  as  is  given 
to  few  of  the  marionettes  of  fiction.  Recall 
"Yvette,"  "Une  Fille  d'une  Ferme,"  and  "Boule  de 
Suif"  as  contrasted  types.  He  who  has  passed 
through  the  stern  gallery  which  bears  the  name  of 
Maupassant  can  no  more  forget  the  legends  thereof 
than  the  heart-searching  experiences  of  his  own  life. 

By  the  way,  Oscar  Wilde  was  adjudged  guilty  by 
an  English  court  of  unspeakable  immoralities.  Yet 
his  writings  are  entirely  free  from  obscenity.  And 
his  biographer  Sherard  testifies  that  in  a  close  ac- 
quaintance with  him  extending  over  sixteen  years,  he 
never  heard  Wilde  utter  an  impure  word,  nor  would 
he  listen  to  a  "broad"  story. 

The  upshot  of  all  this  would  seem  to  be  that  a 
man's  writings  afford  no  safe  clue  to  his  personal 
character  or  morality. 


y 

K     LOST    BOHEMIAN 

WILLIAM  WINTER'S  memories  of  New 
York's  literary  Bohemia  fifty  years  ago, 
have  a  great  charm  and  never  lack  inter- 
est, even  though  many  figures  recalled  by  the  veteran 
writer  have  long  since  passed  out  of  common  recol- 
lection.    The  reason  for  this  lies  in  Mr.  Winter 
himself,  or  rather  in  his  wonderful  art  of  vitalizing 
these  (often)  thin  shades  of  departed  worthies.     It 
was  a  thing  well  worth  doing,  and  Mr.  Winter  has 
done  it  excellently  well. 

Perhaps  the  most  satisfactory  way  for  a  man  to 
reveal  himself  is  by  telling  us  about  his  friends. 
Many  people  will  prize  these  "Memories"  more 
for  the  intimate  revelation  of  William  Winter  which 
they  unwittingly  offer  than  for  the  sketches  of  not 
a  few  among  his  neglected  contemporaries.  Like 
Desdemona,  they  will  attend  more  to  Othello  than 
to  his  tale,  and  they  will  like  best  that  part  of  it  of 
which  he  himself  is  the  theme.  It  must  be  allowed 
that  such  readers  will  be  fully  warranted  in  their 
preference.  Mr.  Winter's  latest  work  is  all  that  we 

265 


266       AT  THE   SIGN   OF   THE   VAN 

have  a  right  to  expect  from  this  true  gentleman  and 
most  worthy  man  of  letters. 

The  value  of  the  service  he  has  performed  in 
writing  about  men  whose  names  are  lost  to  the  pres- 
ent generation  will,  of  course,  be  questioned;  yet  it 
may  have  been  a  wise  as  well  as  generous  thing  to 
do.  Thackeray  confesses  that  the  wisest  and  most 
talented  persons  whom  he  had  known  were  neither 
authors  nor  in  any  way  famous.  Too  much  virtue 
and  excellence  pass  unnoted  of  the  world,  while  too 
much  base  coin  goes  current.  This  was  evidently  a 
prime  thought  with  Mr.  Winter  in  shaping  his 
reminiscences,  for  he  says: 

"It  is  a  fact  within  the  experience  of  every  close 
observer  of  his  time,  that  men  and  women  of  ex- 
traordinary ability  and  charm  pass  across  the  scene 
and  vanish  from  it,  making  a  potent  impression  of 
character,  of  mind,  and  even  of  genius,  yet  leaving 
no  enduring  evidence  of  their  exceptional  worth. 
Such  persons,  of  whom  the  world  hears  nothing,  are 
sometimes  more  interesting  than  some  persons — 
writers  and  the  like — of  whom  the  world  hears 
much." 

Among  the  actors  in  this  lost  Bohemia  of  New 
York,  depicted  by  Mr.  Winter,  the  most  striking 
and  memorable  seems  to  have  been  the  Irish  poet 
and  soldier  of  fortune,  Fitz-James  O'Brien.  Mr. 
Winter  calls  him  the  most  representative  Bohemian 


A    LOST    BOHEMIAN  267 

writer  whom  it  had  been  his  fortune  to  know,  and  he 
speaks  of  him  with  the  frankest  admiration.  Yet 
how  many  reading  persons  know  anything  about 
him?  A  nimble,  fiery  spirit,  capable  alike  of  wild 
excesses  and  of  tremendous  fits  of  literary  industry, 
reckless,  intolerant  of  the  slightest  control,  gener- 
ous, improvident,  living  the  day  with  utter  zest  and 
heedless  of  the  morrow, — Fitz- James  O'Brien  mer- 
its something  more  than  the  faint  echo  and  colorless 
outline  of  him  that  have  come  down  to  us.  Mr. 
Winter  has  impartially  and  with  good  heart  sup- 
plied the  lack,  thereby  giving  light  and  life  to  his 
own  chronicle.  In  the  present  dearth  of  original 
talent,  one  would  think  some  publisher  might  have 
the  courage  and  the  enterprise  to  do  for  Fitz-James 
O'Brien  what  has  been  so  thoroughly  done  for  Poe; 
it  would  bring  him,  I  dare  predict,  both  honor  and 
profit. 

Much  of  O'Brien's  work  was  of  a  fugitive  char- 
acter and  is  lost;  enough  remains,  Mr.  Winter  tells 
us,  to  make  a  volume  of  five  hundred  pages.  He 
wrote  many  poems,  a  few  plays,  and  two  or  three 
of  the  most  powerful  short  stories  in  our  literature, 
rivaling,  if  they  do  not  surpass,  the  best  tales  of 
Poe.  His  poems  were  struck  off  in  a  heat,  and, 
therefore,  often  lack  the  last  touches  of  the  file;  but 
they  have  vigor,  passion  and  imaginative  power  be- 
yond most  verse  of  the  present  day.  His  "Lost 
Steamship"  is  a  wonderful  feat  of  genius,  a  piece 


268       AT   THE   SIGN   OF   THE   VAN 

of  mingled  awe  and  horror  without  a  parallel  in 
American  literature.  Regarding  this  poem,  Mr. 
Winter  says: — 

"A  steamship  has  been  recently  wrecked  on  the 
Atlantic  coast,  with  much  loss  of  life.  The  poem 
is  the  story  of  the  disaster,  and  that  story  is  told 
to  a  fisherman  on  the  shore  by  a  person  who  seems 
at  first  to  be  the  only  survivor  of  the  wreck.  The 
speaker  declared  that  all  on  board  the  ship  were 
drowned — the  last  man  to  go  down  with  her  being 
the  second  mate;  then  suddenly  he  stands  revealed 
as  the  ghost  of  that  mariner,  the  final  victim  en- 
gulfed by  the  sea.  I  have  heard  many  readings :  I 
have  never  heard  one  in  which  afflicting  reality,  hys- 
terical excitement,  shuddering  fear  and  tremendous 
pathos,  were  so  strangely  blended  as  they  were  in 
O'Brien's  reading  of  his  'Lost  Steamship.' ' 

O'Brien  told  the  best  story  of  a  prize  fight  in 
verse,  as  Conan  Doyle  has  done  it  in  prose.  I  have 
not  seen  the  poem  in  twenty  years,  but  it  left  on 
my  mind  the  impress  of  a  bare  and  brutal,  yet  most 
genuine,  piece  of  art.  Fiercely  as  he  improvised, — 
as  though  conscious  that  his  time  was  short  and  his 
call  imminent, — he  wrote  little  that  was  negligible 
or  worthless. 

The  life  of  Fitz-James  O'Brien  was,  however,  a 
good  deal  more  of  a  romance  than  any  literary  work 
he  has  left  us.  There  runs  through  it  much  of  the 
devil-may-care  spirit,  the  reckless  love  of  adventure, 


A    LOST    BOHEMIAN  269 

and  withal  the  attaching  magnetism  of  "Barry  Lyn- 
don" or  "Harry  Lorrequer."  In  a  word,  an  Irish- 
man's true  romance,  for  no  trait  of  the  Celt  was 
lacking  in  O'Brien,  and  he  possessed,  besides,  genius 
that  under  a  more  benign  fate  should  have  writ- 
ten his  name  with  the  great  ones  of  his  race. 

Graduated  from  Dublin  University,  O'Brien  spent 
an  inheritance  of  $40,000  in  two  years  and  then 
came  to  this  country  to  make  hazard  of  his  literary 
fortunes.  He  could  not  have  chosen  a  worse  time — 
it  was  the  period  just  before  the  Civil  War,  when 
appreciation  of  literary  art  in  America  was  at  the 
lowest,  and  compensation,  therefore,  of  the  mean- 
est. O'Brien  cast  in  his  lot  with  the  literary  Bo- 
hemians of  New  York,  when,  as  Mr.  Winter  point- 
edly reminds  us,  New  York  had  real  literary  Bo- 
hemians— the  distinction  being  a  just  one.  Then 
followed  his  too  brief  career,  marked  alike  by  pri- 
vations and  excesses,  but  redeemed  by  seasons  of 
brilliant  productiveness  that  have  left  enduring  fruit. 

Among  the  literary  free  lances  of  New  York  in 
the  decade  preceding  the  War,  not  one  feasted  and 
fasted  with  gayer  courage  or  happier  thoughtless- 
ness than  Fitz-James  O'Brien.  He  was,  in  truth, 
the  beau  sabreur  of  that  adventurous  company  who 
made  trial  of  their  wits  against  the  world,  and  alone 
of  them  all  his  name  and  his  song  will  perhaps  be 
saved  from  oblivion.  Mr.  Winter  speaks  of 
O'Brien's  "uncommonly  attractive  aspect,  his  ath- 


270       AT   THE   SIGN   OF   THE   VAN 

letic  figure,  genial  face,  fair  complexion,  pleasing 
smile,  waving  brown  hair  and  winning  demeanor." 
Bohemia  is  cruel  to  her  darling  children,  like  all 
passionate  mistresses,  and  she  did  not  spare  this  fine 
portrait,  yet  in  his  latest  memory  of  the  poet  Mr. 
Winter  can  still  say  of  him : — "His  expressive  gray 
eyes  were  clear  and  brilliant;  his  laughter  was  bluff 
and  breezy;  his  voice  was  strong  and  musical;  his 
manner  was  gay,  and  he  was  a  cheerful  companion, 
making  the  most  of  To-day  and  caring  not  at  all 
for  To-morrow." 

There  is  little  more  to  be  told.  On  the  outbreak 
of  the  War,  O'Brien  offered  his  sword  to  his 
adopted  country,  and  soon  became  an  aide  on  Gen- 
eral Lander's  staff.  His  bravery  was  marked  from 
the  moment  he  entered  the  service,  although  he  had 
a  presentiment  of  his  early  death,  which  warning  is 
often  the  sad  privilege  of  poetic  natures.  After  a 
merry-making  in  camp,  where  all  had  sung  the  song 
from  Don  Caesar  de  Bazan,  "Then  let  me  like  a 
soldier  die,"  he  spoke  of  this  feeling  to  a  comrade, 
but  remarked,  with  characteristic  courage,  that  he 
was  content.  Within  a  few  days  afterward  he  met 
a  soldier's  death  at  Harper's  Ferry.  .  .  . 

"Poet,  romancer,  wanderer,  soldier,  he  sung  his 
song,  he  told  his  story,  he  met  his  fate  like  a  brave 
man,  giving  his  life  to  his  adopted  country,  and 
dying — with  much  promise  unfulfilled — only  thirty- 
four  years  old." 


A    LOST    BOHEMIAN  271 

These  are  the  words  of  the  true  friend  and  lover 
of  his  memory  to  whom  we  owe  this  pathetic,  fas- 
cinating glimpse  of  a  romantic  life  and  a  glorious 
though  broken  career.  They  are  not  unworthy  to 
be  inscribed  upon  the  tomb  of  Fitz- James  O'Brien. 


SHAKESPEARE 

MARY  FITTON  was  a  maid  of  dishonor 
and  quality  at  the  court  of  Elizabeth  the 
Virgin  Queen  of  ironical  history.  She 
was  beautiful  and  she  had  many  lovers,  to  several 
of  whom  she  was  lavish  of  her  kindness,  in  the  free 
manner  of  the  time.  The  natural  result  followed — 
she  bore  children  to  two  or  three  of  them  before 
she  was  finally  married  off,  for  appearance  sake, 
no  doubt,  to  a  person  of  the  plebeian  name  of  Pol- 
whele.  We  cannot  be  sure  that  she  lived  happy 
ever  afterward,  as  the  story  books  say,  but  at  any 
rate  she  disappeared  from  the  scene. 

One  of  her  most  favored  lovers  was  William 
Herbert,  Earl  of  Pembroke,  still  reputed  Shake- 
speare's leman  and  the  Mr.  W.  H.  of  the  sonnets. 
To  him  she  bore  a  son,  and  to  Sir  Richard  Leveson 
two  daughters,  according  to  old  gossip.  Her  way- 
ward fancies  sometimes  declined  lower:  she  is  sus- 
pected of  favoring  a  comedian  by  name  Kemp  in 
Shakespeare's  company,  and  for  years  she  tolerated, 

272 


SHAKESPEARE  273 

if  she  did  not  return,  the  love  of  the  Master  Play- 
wright himself. 

Such,  at  least,  is  the  contention  of  Mr.  Frank 
Harris  in  his  book,  "The  Man  Shakespeare";  and 
if  it  stopped  there  the  matter  might  be  dismissed  as 
likely  enough  or  not  worth  the  trouble  of  refuting. 
But  Mr.  Harris  constructs  me — with  devilish  in- 
genuity, it  must  be  said — a  plot  out  of  this  Mary 
Fitton's  alleged  relations  with  Pembroke  and  Shake- 
speare and  thereby  attempts  a  novel  interpretation 
of  the  Poet's  greatest  works.  In  a  word,  Shake- 
speare's betrayed  and  unsatisfied  passion  for  Mary 
Fitton  is  made  to  figure  as  the  "causa  causans,"  the 
compelling  motive,  of  Hamlet,  Othello,  Lear,  An- 
thony and  Cleopatra,  Cymbeline,  Troilus  and  Cres- 
sida,  etc. 

This  is  a  bold  theory,  to  be  sure,  and  if  it  was 
never  thought  of  before,  as  the  author  exultantly 
declares,  it  is  only  because  the  time  was  not  ripe 
for  it.  The  present  age — let  us  say  hour — is  femin- 
ist above  all  things  in  its  view  of  art.  Mr.  Harris  is 
a  true  child  of  the  age  and  hour.  Hence  his  theory 
of  the  motive  cause  behind  Shakespeare's  terrible 
dramas  of  love,  jealousy,  passion  and  revenge. 
There's  as  neat  a  syllogism  as  you  could  ask  for. 

But  though  we  need  not  grant  to  Mr.  Harris's 
theory  anything  like  the  importance  he  claims  for  it, 
we  must  confess  that  he  has  made  thereupon  a  most 
fascinating  and  delightful  book,  which  any  lover  or 


274       AT   THE   SIGN   OF   THE   VAN 

student  of  Shakespeare  would  be  sorry  to  miss.  Re- 
fusing to  see  Shakespeare's  "romance"  as  Mr.  Har- 
ris sees  it,  there  is  yet  much  profit  in  his  book.  The 
literary  criticism,  pure  and  simple,  is  most  original 
and  suggestive;  the  study  of  the  Poet's  character  is 
in  many  points  a  marvel  of  divination;  while  the 
sketch  of  his  life,  in  two  chapters,  is  the  most  read- 
able and  satisfactory  that  I  have  ever  met  with. 

Mr.  Harris  views  Shakespeare  as  a  man  of  in- 
tensely sensual  nature,  and  indeed  rests  the  burden 
of  his  "theory"  upon  the  undoubted  passion  and 
sensualism  of  the  Poet.  It  has  become  too  much 
the  fashion  to  deny  all  faults  in  Shakespeare,  even 
those  that  reveal  his  fierce-burning  humanity.  Read- 
ers of  Papyrus  may  recall  that  a  few  years  ago  I 
expressed  a  similar  view  of  Shakespeare,  in  these 
remarks  addressed  to  Mr.  William  Winter: 

Has  any  writer  ever  more  thoroughly  explored 
the  seamy  side  of  human  nature  than  your  favorite 
playwright?  Has  any  ever  shown  a  more  instructed, 
not  to  say  loving,  familiarity  with  every  detail  of 
the  stews  and  the  brothel?  Do  you  know  of  any 
poet  or  playwright  richer  or  more  expert  in  the  lan- 
guage and  images  of  lawless  passion?  Or  any  who, 
to  speak  plainly,  more  deliberately  "ran  to  the 
thing"  and  salted  his  strongest  and  most  character- 
istic work  with  it?  Do  you  really  think  that  Shake- 
speare could  have  gotten  any  points  from  Sir  Pan- 
darus  of  Troy?  That  the  author  of  the  "Merry 


SHAKESPEARE  275 

Wives"  and  "Pericles"  was,  however  great  his 
genius,  a  cleaner-minded  man  than  G.  B.  Shaw? 
Finally,  that  the  absurdity  ever  occurred  to  him  of 
writing  a  play  with  a  moral  purpose? 

Shakespeare  cares  no  more  for  morality,  the  mor- 
ality of  plackets  and  codpieces,  than  Nature  herself. 
It  will  not  do  to  plead  the  old  excuse  of  the  license 
of  the  times  and  the  stage — Shakespeare  too  often 
goes  out  of  his  way  to  lug  in  filth,  does  it  from  pure 
love  of  the  muck  and  nastiness  as  much  as  from  the 
Elizabethan  notion  that  he  was  providing  a  good 
substitute  for  wit.  Let  this  favorite  subject  of  his 
be  up,  and  at  once,  to  use  his  own  phrase,  he  is  "hot 
as  goats  at  prime,  as  salt  as  monkeys."  In  truth 
he  has  not  left  a  vigorous  image  in  kind  for  any  of 
his  successors.  None  of  Shakespeare's  plays  can  be 
acted  without  expurgation ;  they  all  reek  of  the  rank- 
ness  of  his  grosser  mind;  even  the  immortal  poem 
of  "Romeo  and  Juliet"  and  the  sweet  drama  of 
"Cymbeline"  are  disfigured  by  many  foul  passages 
in  which  the  poet  leaps  about  with  lewd  gestures, 
like  one  of  Dante's  obscene  fiends. 

Mr.  Harris  rather  unduly  stresses  the  point  that 
the  immortal  William  Shakespeare  was  a  snob.  This 
was  no  news  to  most  people,  although  perhaps  the 
fact  will  bear  restating  in  view  of  the  traditional 
fog  of  hero-worship  surrounding  the  Poet.  Tolstoy 
had  exposed  it  in  the  course  of  a  cruel  dissection 
of  the  British  Idol.  The  late  Ernest  Crosby  wrote 


276      AT  THE   SIGN   OF   THE   VAN 

some  powerful  essays  on  the  subject.  That  Shake- 
speare hated,  or  affected  to  hate,  the  common  people 
is  evident  from  a  hundred  references  in  the  Plays, — 
as  evident,  say,  as  that  Mr.  Henry  James  has  a 
preference  for  polite  society.  He  is  fond  of  telling 
the  rabble  that  they  stink  in  their  persons,  their 
breath  and  their  clothes.  He  has  only  contempt  for 
mechanics  and  workingmen  generally — witness  the 
foolish  comedy  (as  apart  from  the  poetry)  of  the 
"Midsummer  Night's  Dream."  And  much  else  of 
the  same  quality  that  every  reader  will  recall. 

On  the  other  hand,  when  the  matter  has  to  do 
with  persons  of  rank  or  noble  blood,  the  Poet  is 
always  found  groveling  on  his  English  belly.  The 
sycophancy  which  he  expresses,  and  the  terms  in 
which  his  terribly  facile  gift  of  speech  enables  him 
to  clothe  his  abject  worship  of  place  and  power  and 
"gentle  blood,"  are  nothing  short  of  disgusting  to 
any  modern  reader  who  is  not  himself  a  snob  by 
overt  choice  or  secret  election.  But,  dear  me !  why 
does  Mr.  Harris  plague  us  with  all  this  damnable 
iteration  to  the  point?  One  would  think  there  had 
been  no  literary  snobs  since  Shakespeare,  or  that 
snobbishness  (malgre  Thackeray)  was  not  now,  as 
always,  a  distinctive  badge  among  the  scribbling 

tribe.  .  .  . 

***** 

In  another  generation  or  so  Shakespeare  will  be 
as  infrequently  acted  as  the  Greek  Plays.  At  this 


SHAKESPEARE  277 

moment  there  is  but  one  tolerable  company  repre- 
senting him  in  America,  a  country  done  to  death  with 
mummers.  I  went  to  see  this  company  not  long  ago 
(it  is  that  headed  by  Sothern  and  Marlowe)  and 
was  confirmed  in  the  prediction  just  made.  Although 
the  play  ("As  You  Like  It")  had  been  modernized 
and  prettified  as  much  as  possible,  with  lots  of  busi- 
ness that  sweet  William  never  contemplated,  it 
plainly  did  not  "get  to"  the  bulk  of  the  audience. 
I,  who  have  known  by  heart  most  of  the  lines  since 
boyhood,  felt  it  was  boring  and  tedious,  not  because 
we  were  "a  quantity  of  barren  spectators"  or  be- 
cause the  acting  was  bad — no,  it  was  simply  due  to 
Shakespeare  being  out  of  date,  though  it  be  treason 
dire  to  whisper  such  a  thing. 

There  is  no  doubt  about  it,  however.  I  yield  to  no 
man  of  woman  born  in  love  and  loyalty  to  the  Bard, 
and  I  still  feel  that  in  possessing  myself  of  him  in 
early  youth  I  gained  the  better  part  of  my  education. 
Nor  do  I  think  that  he  will  cease  to  be  read  so  long 
as  the  English  tongue  is  spoken.  But  that  the  stage 
will  soon  see  little  of  him  I  am  confident.  His  lan- 
guage is  mostly  antiquated  or  obsolete  and  often 
puzzling  even  to  the  well  educated,  who  are  not 
numerous  enough  to  support  the  theatre.  I  could  see 
at  the  performance  mentioned  that  many  of  his  "pal- 
pable hits"  were  lost  on  the  audience,  and  their 
approval  was  of  that  strained  sort  that  betokens  im- 
perfect comprehension.  It  was  clear  that  they 


278      AT  THE   SIGN   OF   THE   VAN 

wanted  to  love  Rosalind,  that  darling  of  all  Shake- 
speare's women,  but  much  of  her  talk  was  Greek  to 
them.  I  should  blush  to  confess  (I  suppose)  that  I 
had  rather  a  dull  time  of  it  myself,  and  I  was  decid- 
edly vexed  to  find  an  alien  something  between  me 
and  my  old  favorites,  Jaques  and  Touchstone. 

The  truth  is  (though  nobody  will  hear  of  it  in 
this  case)  that  Shakespeare  is  still  played  largely  in 
compliment  to  an  august  and  venerable  tradition. 
His  speech  is  foreign  to  an  average  present-day  au- 
dience, his  sentiment  often  unintelligible,  his  pas- 
sion rather  absurd,  and  his  humor  grotesque  rather 
than  amusing — (it  takes  a  rare  order  of  genius  to 
make  a  Shakespearean  clown  funny  at  this  time  of 
day).  Again,  modern  dramatic  technique  does  not 
permit  of  long  speeches,  which  are  at  once  the  bane 
and  the  great  virtue  of  Shakespeare,  for  while  they 
delay  the  action  they  contain  most  of  his  poetry.  I 
fear  these  long  speeches  bred  a  special  sort  of  vice 
in  generations  of  mummers,  of  which  we  shall  be 
glad  to  see  the  end.  Quiet,  natural  acting,  the  chief 
requirement  in  the  best  art  of  to-day,  could  never 
have  been  deemed  desirable  in  plays  that  are  mainly 
contests  in  oratory  and,  to  use  the  Bard's  own  happy 
phrase,  windy  suspiration  of  forced  breath.  Mr. 
Sothern,  an  excellent  and  well  graced  actor,  tried  the 
quiet  modern  method  with  the  famous  speech  of 
Jaques,  "All  the  world's  a  stage,"  and  it  seemed  to 
me  quite  unhappily.  This,  like  most  of  Shake- 


SHAKESPEARE  279 

speare's  long  speeches,  calls  for  action  and  the 
utmost  art  of  the  orator.  The  earliest  traditions  of 
the  acted  Shakespearean  drama  are  all  to  this  effect: 
the  lines  were  the  thing  rather  than  the  play  (in 
disagreement  with  Hamlet),  and  so  the  speech  of 
actors  took  on  in  course  of  time  a  peculiarity  of 
character  which  led  to  the  mummers  being  them- 
selves mimicked  in  popular  burlesque. 

Od's-pitikins,  as  the  Bard  would  have  said, 
I  am  becoming  somewhat  tedious  and  long-winded 
myself.  Howbeit,  I  have  spoken  to  my  cue,  to  wit, 
that  our  children's  children  will  have  fewer  chances 
than  are  open  to  us  of  seeing  the  Shakespearean 
drama.  For  though  it  be  certainly  true  that  he  was 
"not  for  a  day  but  for  all  time,"  yet  is  change  writ- 
ten upon  all  things,  and  the  stage  will  one  day  be 
closed  to  the  mightiest  of  its  monarchs.  Never,  we 
may  be  sure,  the  Book  in  which  he  rules  the  hearts 
and  the  imaginations  of  men. 


VII 

THE     CARLYLES 

I  AM  urged  to  republish  the  following  article 
from  a  book  of  mine  now  out  of  print,  in  view 
of  the  recent  publication  of  the  Letters  of  the 
Carlyles.  The  book  was  edited  and  put  together 
by  Mr.  Alexander  Carlyle,  a  nephew  of  the  great 
writer,  and  is  held  to  refute  utterly  and  finally  the 
tragic  legend  of  unhappmess  conjured  up  by  Froude. 
At  least  one  would  be  led  to  think  so  from  the  notices 
in  the  press,  our  American  reviewers  taking  the  palm 
for  cowardice,  incompetency,  nambypambyness  and 
insincerity.  It  being  conventionally  agreed  that 
Froude's  story  ought,  in  the  interests  of  convention- 
ality, to  be  suppressed  and  written  down,  our  press- 
men take  their  cue  with  mealy-mouthed  eagerness. 
And  we  have  another  instance  of  the  thing  which 
lately  roused  Mr.  Zangwill's  wonder, — the  shrinking 
pudency  of  the  American  publisher! 

In  point  of  fact,  this  book  has  nothing  to  say  to 
the  painful  revelation  made  by  Froude  in  his  pamph- 
let, "My  Relations  with  Carlyle."  That  story  may 
or  may  not  be  true,  but  it  is  quite  unaffected  by  any- 

280 


THE    CARLYLES  281 

thing  contained  in  these  letters  of  Thomas  Carlyle 
and  Jane  Welsh,  or  in  the  editor's  wrathful  con- 
tribution to  the  work.  What  the  story  is,  the  reader 
who  likes  to  judge  for  himself  and  who  does  not 
like  to  have  his  mind  made  up  for  him  by  Scotch 
nephews  and  Yankee  reviewers,  may  learn  below. 

There  was  a  man  great  of  intellect,  world-famous, 
who  during  nearly  half  a  century  poured  forth  a 
gospel  that  was  largely  leavened  with  hatred  and 
scorn  of  human  kind.  Sprung  from  the  lowest 
ranks  of  the  people,  nurtured  on  poverty's  most  con- 
genial soil,  this  man  never  ceased  to  advocate  with 
stormy  eloquence  the  Rule  of  the  Strong.  Rarely, 
if  ever,  were  his  sympathies  with  the  weak  and  dis- 
inherited of  the  earth, — the  class  from  which  he 
fetched  his  being.  Power  and  the  symbols  of  power 
(though  he  might  sometimes  affect  to  gibe  at  these) 
were  the  materials  of  his  worship  and  the  incentives 
of  his  genius.  Waging  bitter  war  against  what  he 
called  shams,  he  yet  upheld  with  all  the  force  of 
his  mind  the  colossal  Shams  of  Power,  of  Property 
and  Rank,  by  which  humanity  has  been  held  in  sub- 
jection since  the  dawn  of  history.  The  topmost 
effort  of  his  talent  was  and  remains  a  misreading 
and  a  travesty  of  the  most  salutary  event  in  modern 
history — the  French  Revolution.  His  chosen  heroes 
for  the  most  part  incarnated  the  ideal  of  power 
which  he  worshipped.  Yet  he  was  not  consistent 


282       AT  THE   SIGN   OF  THE   VAN 

even  in  the  chief  article  of  his  creed,  for,  though 
hating  and  despising  the  people,  he  sometimes  canted 
of  democracy;  and,  though  reverencing  the  hem  of 
Caesar's  robe,  he  sometimes  indemnified  his  haughty 
spirit  by  a  fling  at  the  Superior  Classes. 

As  an  individual,  this  man  yielded  complete  re- 
spect to  no  human  being,  and  he  never  met  one 
whom  he  would  acknowledge  to  be  his  equal.  His 
references  to  his  literary  contemporaries,  even  those 
who  had  furthered  his  interests  and  benefited  him, 
are  always  couched  in  a  tone  of  disparagement — 
never  was  there  an  intellectual  sovereign  who  bore 
so  ill  a  brother  near  the  throne. 

At  last  he  died,  full  of  years  and  bitterness,  yet  a 
little  softened  by  time  and  sorrow,  as  he  would  have 
us,  somewhat  shamefacedly,  believe  in  his  latest 
memorials.  The  pity  of  mankind  was  irresistibly 
drawn  to  the  forlorn  and  loveless  end  of  one  who 
had  been  so  long  a  great  voice  in  letters,  a  prophet 
and  a  witness  of  the  times.  Then  came  the  trusted 
friend  of  his  last  years,  the  custodian  of  his  sacred 
honor,  charged  to  report  him  and  his  cause  aright 
to  the  unsatisfied, — and  did  the  act  abominable  upon 
his  grave !  .  .  . 

Froude  has  been  heartily  cursed  for  his  exposure 
of  the  Carlyle  family  skeleton,  and  up  to  the  present 
his  case  seems  to  have  gone  a-begging  for  defend- 
ers. Certainly  no  man  ever  took  upon  himself  a 
worse  or  more  shameful  function  than  did  Froude 


THE    CARLYLES  283 

— to  lift,  for  all  the  world  to  see,  the  breech-clout 
of  the  great  man  who  had  honored  him  with  as  much 
friendship  and  esteem  as  it  was  in  his  nature  to  allow 
any  one,  and  had  charged  him  with  the  most  sacred 
trust  one  man  can  lay  upon  another.  The  head 
and  front  of  Froude's  offending  is  seen  in  these  ex- 
cerpts from  his  pamphlet,  "My  Relations  with  Car- 
lyle": 

"Various  hints  were  dropped  in  the  circle  which 
gathered  at  the  house  in  Cheyne  Row  about  the  na- 
ture of  the  relations  between  them  (the  Carlyles), 
that  their  marriage  was  not  a  real  marriage,  and 
was  only  a  companionship,"  etc. 


"Geraldine  Jewsbury  was  Mrs.  Carlyle's  most  in- 
timate and  most  confidential  friend.  .  .  .  She  was 
admitted  into  Cheyne  Row  on  the  closest  terms. 
Mrs.  Carlyle  in  her  own  troubles  spoke  and  wrote 
of  Geraldine  Jewsbury  as  her  Consuelo.  .  .  .  When 
she  (Miss  Jewsbury)  heard  that  Carlyle  had  se- 
lected me  to  write  his  biography,  she  came  to  me 
to  say  that  she  had  something  to  tell  me  which  I 
ought  to  know.  I  must  have  learnt  that  the  state 
of  things  had  been  most  unsatisfactory;  the  explana- 
tion of  the  whole  of  it  was  that  Carlyle  was  one  of 
those  persons  who  ought  never  to  have  married. 
Mrs.  Carlyle  had  at  first  endeavored  to  make  the 
best  of  the  position  in  which  she  found  herself.  But 


284      AT   THE   SIGN   OF   THE   VAN 

his  extraordinary  temper  was  a  consequence  of  his 
organization.  As  he  grew  older  and  more  famous, 
he  had  become  more  violent  and  overbearing.  She 
had  longed  for  children,  and  children  were  denied 
to  her.  This  had  been  at  the  bottom  of  all  the  quar- 
rels and  all  the  unhappiness.  .  .  .  She  (Miss  Jews- 
bury)  said  that  Mrs.  Carlyle  never  forgave  the  in- 
jury which  she  believed  herself  to  have  received." 


"I  had  observed  in  Mrs.  Carlyle's  Diary  that  im- 
mediately after  the  entry  of  the  blue  marks  on  her 
arms,  she  had  spent  a  day  with  Geraldine  at  Hamp- 
stead.  I  asked  Miss  Jewsbury  if  she  recollected 
anything  about  it:  She  remembered  it  only  too  well. 
The  marks  were  made  by  (Carlyle's)  personal  vio- 
lence." 

***** 

***** 

"She  (Miss  Jewsbury)  did  not  live  long  after  this. 
In  her  last  illness,  when  she  knew  that  she  was  dying, 
and  when  it  is  entirely  inconceivable  that  she  would 
have  uttered  any  light  or  ill-considered  gossip,  she 
repeated  all  this  to  me,  with  many  curious  details. 
I  will  mention  one,  as  it  shows  that  Carlyle  did  not 
know,  when  he  married,  what  his  constitution  was. 
The  morning  after  his  wedding  day  he  tore  to  pieces 
the  flower  garden  at  Comley  Bank  in  a  fit  of  ungov- 
ernable fury." 


THE    CARLYLES  285 

This  is  awful,  and  perhaps  at  all  points  it  has  no 
parallel  in  literary  biography.  Yet  I  believe  the 
final  judgment  of  the  world  will  not  be  so  harsh  upon 
Froude  as  it  is  at  present.  I  believe  his  offence,  bad 
as  it  must  be  deemed,  arose  from  a  perverted  casuis- 
try rather  than  from  a  motive  of  conscious  and  de- 
liberate malice.  If  Froude  was  the  devil  in  this 
business,  let  us  at  least  give  the  devil  his  due.  He 
was  himself  a  writer  of  high  performance,  endued 
with  more  than  the  usual  sensitiveness  that  belongs 
to  the  literary  character.  He  was  naturally  solicit- 
ous about  his  own  reputation — had  not  he,  also,  a 
name  to  leave  to  future  times,  and  should  he  suffer 
an  evil  blot  upon  it?  He  saw  himself  attacked  by 
the  greedy  and  unscrupulous  Scotch  relatives  of  Car- 
lyle.  His  feelings  were  deeply  injured.  His  honor 
was  impeached  and  the  basest  motives  were  at- 
tributed to  him.  Something  of  all  this  was  due  to 
Carlyle's  own  vacillating,  uncandid  course  with  re- 
gard to  the  nature  and  extent  of  the  responsibility 
which  he  had  imposed  upon  Froude.  The  latter 
disclaims  any  personal  ill-feeling  toward  Carlyle 
upon  this  or  any  other  account,  but  one  can  hardly 
doubt  that  he  resented  the  clumsy  checks  and  bal- 
ances that  hindered  his  task  and  at  last  brought  it 
to  ruin.  It  is  enough,  from  Froude's  point  of  view, 
that  he  had  done  a  great  and  peculiarly  thankless 
labor  in  fulfilling  his  trust  toward  Carlyle.  It  had 
involved,  first,  a  painful  responsibility,  then  a  host 


286      AT  THE  SIGN   OF  THE  VAN 

of  anxieties,  and,  last  of  all,  it  had  drawn  a  mad- 
dening persecution  upon  his  closing  term  of  life, 
which,  as  he  tells  us,  he  had  looked  forward  to  as  a 
peaceful  harbor.  Baited  by  all  the  pack,  wounded, 
desperate  and  dying,  he  struck  out  in  defence  of  his 
honor  and  good  faith;  and,  passing  into  the  Silence, 
left  his  vindication  to  the  world. 

Whatever  judgment  we  may  form  as  to  the  means 
he  employed  to  clear  his  name,  it  will  be  difficult  to 
impeach  the  sincerity  of  Froude's  solemn  witness  in 
the  shadow  of  death.  I,  for  one,  do  not  believe,  as 
so  many  affect  to  believe,  that  his  last  act  in  this 
world  was  to  erect  a  monumental  slander  to  the 
memory  of  his  friend.  To  hold  this  detestable  view, 
which  has  been  lightly  assumed  by  the  mob  of 
Froude's  censors,  were  to  think  worse  of  human 
nature  than  Carlyle  himself  did  in  his  most  lycan- 
thropic  humor.  .  .  . 

I  have  said  that  Froude's  disclosure  concerning 
Carlyle  cannot  at  all  points  be  matched  by  any  in- 
stance known  to  me  in  literary  biography.  This 
statement  has  regard  to  the  eminence  of  both  men, 
the  nature  of  the  trust  imposed  upon  Froude,  and 
the  entire  moral  history  of  the  affair.  But  as  to 
Carlyle's  alleged  sexual  impotency  there  need,  of 
course,  be  no  vulgar  wonder,  since  it  is  a  common 
enough  physical  misfortune.  Yet  it  is  this  matter, 
as  declared  baldly  in  Froude's  posthumous  pamphlet, 
which  has  chiefly  infuriated  the  old  maids  of  the 


THE    CARLYLES  287 

literary  press,  as  if  it  were  not  under  Heaven  con- 
ceivable that  the  author  of  "Sartor  Resartus"  should 
have  lacked  the  power  to  beget  a  child  of  his  body! 
Well,  we  have  the  best  evidence  for  believing  that 
the  author  of  "The  Stones  of  Venice"  labored  under 
a  similar  incapacity,  and  the  regrettable  fact,  though 
it  lost  him  his  beautiful  wife  (who,  woman-like, 
thought  less  of  his  genius  than  of  certain  other 
things),  seems  in  no  way  to  have  impaired  the  viril- 
ity of  his  style;  yet  I  believe,  as  in  the  case  of  Car- 
lyle,  that  it  is  answerable  for  the  scolding  element 
in  so  much  of  his  work.  Oh,  you  ladies  of  both 
sexes,  have  you  never  heard  the  true  story  of  one 
who  was  a  greater  genius,  a  greater  scold  and  a 
fiercer  hater  of  humanity  than  even  your  idol  Car- 
lyle?  Have  you  never  wept  over  the  piteous  trag- 
edy of  Stella,  which  moved  the  kindly  cynic  Thack- 
eray to  his  finest  pathos?  Was  the  secret  of  Swift 
the  secret  of  Carlyle? — Look  at  this  parallel: 

Froude. — He  (Carlyle)  had  said,  in  his  journal, 
that  there  was  a  secret  connected  with  him  unknown 
to  his  closest  friends;  that  no  one  knew  and  no  one 
would  know  it,  and  that  without  a  knowledge  of  it 
no  true  biography  of  him  was  possible. 

Thackeray. — A  remarkable  story  is  told  by  Scott, 
of  Delany,  who  interrupted  Archbishop  King  and 
Swift  in  a  conversation  which  left  the  prelate  in 
tears,  and  from  which  Swift  rushed  away  with  marks 
of  strong  terror  and  agitation  in  his  countenance, 


288      AT  THE   SIGN   OF  THE   VAN 

upon  which  the  Archbishop  said  to  Delany,  "You 
have  just  met  the  most  unhappy  man  on  earth;  but 
on  the  subject  of  his  wretchedness  you  must  never 
ask  a  question." 

Swift  was  many  years  in  his  grave  ere  the  legend 
crystallized  which  is  now  held  to  explain  the  riddle 
of  his  relations  with  Stella  and  Vanessa,  as  also  of 
a  great  part  of  his  misanthropy.  In  what  seems  the 
similar  case  of  Carlyle  the  world  has  not  been 
obliged  to  wait  for  the  legend,  thanks  to  the  ill- 
advised  attacks  upon  the  man  who  knew  the  story 
and  who  was  goaded  into  telling  it.  The  Swift  leg- 
end belongs  to  an  age  of  greater  immorality,  per- 
haps; of  less  publicity,  certainly,  than  our  own.  It 
is  probable  enough,  though  supported  only  by  the 
vaguest  hearsay.  The  chief  witness,  the  injured 
party,  never  blabbed,  so  far  as  we  know,  and  died 
with  her  secret.  Stella  had  no  Geraldine  Jewsbury 
to  confide  in,  and  she  submitted  her  will  to  the  ter- 
rible Dean  (who  could  yet  be  so  kind  and  loving!) 
in  all  ways.  Besides,  and  this  is  the  core  of  it,  she 
loved  Swift  with  a  great  yet  humble  passion  and  with 
the  fullest  surrender  of  self;  he  was  her  god,  her 
idol  in  whom  she  would  never  see  nor  admit  defect. 
Quarrel  with  him? — why,  she  could  not  have  sur- 
vived one  angry  look  from  his  awful  brow,  but  would 
have  perished  under  his  frown,  as  did  her  unhappy 
rival  of  many  years.  This  was  a  very  different 
thing  to  the  love  of  Jane  Welsh  for  the  great  man 


THE    CARLYLES  289 

to  whom  fate  had  united  her  and  in  whose  tragic 
life-story  her  name  will  now  forever  bear  a  painful 
interest.  A  story,  says  Froude,  as  sternly  tragic, 
as  profoundly  pathetic,  as  the  great  Theban  drama. 

Yes,  the  secret  of  Swift  was  the  secret  of  Car- 
lyle,  but  the  greatest  satirist  that  has  ever  lashed 
the  follies  and  vices  of  mankind  never  conceived 
such  a  masterpiece  of  ironic  fury  as  that  scene  at 
Comley  Bank  on  the  morning  after  Carlyle's  wed- 
ding day!  This  is  the  heaviest  clod  of  humiliation 
that  Froude  cast  upon  that  grave  in  Ecclefechan 
churchyard.  It  is  enough  to  move  our  pity  for  the 
great  man,  so  tragically  shamed  by  the  disclosure, 
who  was  himself  but  little  given  to  pitying  the  weak- 
ness and  misfortunes  of  our  common  humanity. 


VIII 

THE     PRIEST     AND    THE  WOMAN 

OLIVE  RANSOM,  in  "A  Woman's  Heart," 
has  endeavored  to  tell  the  story  of  a  young 
woman  who  loved  a  priest  of  the  Roman 
Catholic  faith  not  wisely  but  too  well. 

A  very  foolish  thing  to  do,  especially  as  Miss 
Katherine  Peshconet  (the  young  woman  in  the  case) 
was  an  intellectual  of  intellectuals,  by  her  own  show- 
ing, with  a  thoroughly  awakened  distrust  of  Catho- 
lic churchcraft  and  a  controversial  turn  which  is  al- 
ways getting  the  better  of  her  and  of  the  story. 
This  is  at  once  the  weakness  and  the  strength  of 
the  book — the  fortune  of  the  polemic,  the  disaster 
of  the  drama.  The  lady  doth  protest  too  much  and 
preaches  besides,  so  that  the  impartial  reader  is  half 
tempted  to  condone  the  unbelievable  treachery  of 
her  lover.  For  she  has  not  merely  the  last  but  the 
first  word,  and,  the  story  being  told  solely  through 
her  letters,  the  priest  is  never  suffered  to  speak  in 
his  own  person.  Naturally,  our  sympathies  are  with 
the  young  woman,  but,  naturally  also,  we  should  like 
to  hear  the  other  party.  The  one-sided  correspond- 

290 


THE  PRIEST  AND  THE  WOMAN    291 

ence  does  indeed  suggest  or  indicate  the  priest's 
course  through  the  unhappy  affair,  yet  the  reader 
asking  the  plain  logic  and  probability  of  life  has  to 
ask  in  vain. 

This  is  a  familiar  trick  of  women's  novels,  where, 
as  a  rule,  sentiment,  passion,  feeling,  emotion,  are 
always  better  and  more  convincingly  realized  than 
the  ordinary  facts  and  combinations  of  practical  ex- 
istence. We  believe  the  lady  when  she  is  in  the 
clouds:  we  will  not  take  her  word  when  she  de- 
scends to  the  basement  floor.  So  it  is  quite  credible 
that  Katherine  Peshconet  may  have  loved  a  priest, 
and,  this  being  granted,  many  of  her  letters  give  a 
true  and  powerful  reflex  of  the  sentiment.  But  her 
planning  to  get  him  out  of  the  Church  or  to  marry 
him  within  it,  to  make  a  Unitarian  or  Episcopalian 
minister  of  him,  or  to  fix  up  the  affair  with  the  Arch- 
bishop (sancta  simplicitasf)  is  a  puerile  piece  of 
business  and  appears  the  more  so  from  the  fact  that 
the  priest  has  never  a  word  to  say  for  himself — 
Katherine  proposing  to  arrange  all  with  true  Ameri- 
can practicality.  However,  the  Church  and  the 
Council  of  Trent  are  too  much  for  one  weak  woman, 
and  her  spineless  priest,  having  possessed  her 
through  a  secret  marriage,  abandons  her  after  long 
wavering  and  goes  to  expiate  his  "sin"  in  a  remote 
monastery.  Katherine  and  her  infant  die  together. 

A  needlessly  cruel  ending,  and  one  which  some 


292      AT  THE   SIGN   OF  THE   VAN 

readers  will  refuse  to  accept,  even  on  the  author's 
word.  For  my  part,  I  do  not  believe  that  Rome 
has  bred  during  several  hundred  years,  or  at  least 
since  the  Council  of  Trent,  a  priest  base  enough  to 
commit  the  crime  and  infamy  charged  to  the  hus- 
band of  Katherine  Peshconet.  One  does  not  expect 
a  woman  to  fight  fair,  especially  against  such  an  an- 
tagonist, and  so  the  author  has  been  tempted  at  the 
end  to  make  out  too  strong  a  case.  This  is  the 
woman's  way,  in  fact  as  in  fiction. 

The  guilty  love  of  priest  and  woman  is  not,  so 
far  as  the  world  has  leave  to  know,  a  fact  of  very 
common  occurrence.  That  it  is  possible  is,  of  course, 
no  more  to  be  disputed  than  human  life  itself.  But 
it  is  strange  that  we  hear  more  about  it  in  fiction 
than  in  everyday  life,  and  this  is  not  wholly  to  be 
accounted  for  by  the  traditional  policy  of  the  Church 
in  hushing  scandal — a  policy  which  derives  its  suc- 
cess chiefly  from  the  consent  and  connivance  of  the 
faithful.  In  fiction,  however,  the  theme  is  con- 
stantly bobbing  up,  and  it  seems  to  harass  the  "lady 
novelist"  in  an  aggravated  form — no  reflection  on 
George  Moore,  author  of  "The  Lake,"  whom  we 
cheerfully  acknowledge  to  be  anything  but  a 'lady. 
Hardly  a  season  passes  without  one  or  more  novels 
dealing  with  an  over-sexed  priest  who  has  forgotten 
his  vows  and  risked  the  Catholic  Heaven  for  love, 
on  meeting  a  young  woman  who  has  helped  him  dis- 


THE  PRIEST  AND  THE  WOMAN    293 

cover  his  unused  virility.  Such  novels,  whether  good 
or  bad,  appeal  to  a  curiosity  part  sectarian,  part 
prurient,  and  are  bound  to  have  a  sale;  perhaps  this 
fact  alone  guarantees  their  annual  appearance. 

However,  this  motive  would  not  apply  to  the  bet- 
ter class  of  such  fictions,  and  it  does  not  apply  to 
Olive  Ransom's  book.  With  all  its  defects  of  omis- 
sion and  commission,  one  is  convinced  that  the  writer 
was  sincere,  that  the  pen  often  burned  in  her  hand, 
that  her  tears  not  seldom  fell  on  the  page  before 
her,  that  her  heart  was  convulsed  with  no  fictitious 
grief,  that  behind  the  slender  fable  she  has  given  us 
there  was  some  reality  of  suffering  and  sorrow,  some 
martyrdom  of  a  woman's  soul,  which  moved  her  to 
the  task.  Such  a  cry  as  this,  such  a  breaking  up  of 
the  depths,  compels  a  sympathy  which  the  many 
artistic  shortcomings  of  the  book  fail  to  neutralize*. 

"I  hate  it.  I  hate  it.  I  hate  it.  ...  It  de- 
prives me  of  hope.  I  hate  it,  I  say !  It  takes  from 
me  the  one  I  love  and  condemns  me  to  a  loveless, 
lonely  life — when  I  would  know  a  husband's  caresses 
and  the  pressure  of  a  son  at  nurse.  I  hate  it  I  My 
health  of  body  and  mind  lay  in  you — every  happi- 
ness my  soul  longed  for.  I  hate  its  outrageous  au- 
thority. I  hate  it  with  fierce  will,  and  I  pray  God 
punish  it  with  destruction  before  another  woman  suf- 
fers as  I  do  through  its  unpitying  mechanism.  God, 
God  of  liberty  in  human  life,  take  vengeance  for  the 
wrong  it  does  me  and  every  woman  in  my  person!" 


294      AT  THE   SIGN   OF  THE   VAN 

I  am  bound  to  point  out  that  the  worst  thing  in 
and  about  the  book  is  this  part  of  the  dedication: 
"To  all  women  of  like  histories."  Now  it  may  be 
granted  that  a  case  like  Katherine  Peshconet's  is  not 
impossible,  since  the  flesh,  even  of  priests,  is  weak 
and  truth  cannot  overcome  its  old  habit  of  being 
stranger  than  fiction.  But  the  thing  could  never  be 
common  enough  to  justify  the  implication  of  the 
words  quoted,  and  there  is  consequently  more  offence 
in  these  few  words  than  in  the  whole  of  the  story. 
To  put  the  matter  plainly,  a  Catholic  woman  who 
should  fling  herself  at  a  priest's  head  would  know 
what  to  expect,  supposing  him  to  be  fallible — it 
would  not  be  marriage;  and  indeed  a  Catholic 
woman  who  would  suffer  no  hindrance  to  her  pas- 
sion for  a  priest  would  yet  stop  short  of  that.  Now, 
a  non-Catholic  woman  who  should  commit  a  like  in- 
discretion with  a  view  to  marrying  the  priest  in  spite 
of  Rome  and  all  its  powers,  would  be  a  fool  for  her 
pains.  Happily  for  a  world  that  is  full  of  very 
real  sorrow  and  suffering,  there  can  be  few  such 
cases  as  that  of  Katherine  Peshconet,  and  the  author 
has  foolishly  prejudiced  her  book  by  implying  the 
contrary. 

The  great  disappointment  of  the  story  lies  in  the 
author's  failure  to  make  us  "realize"  the  priest.  He 
is  the  "cause  of  all  the  trouble,"  yet  we  are  never 
suffered  to  see  him,  or  to  hear  his  "rich  voice,"  or 
to  read  one  of  those  "beautiful  letters"  of  which 


THE  PRIEST  AND  THE  WOMAN    295 

Katherine  speaks  and  which  she  jealously  keeps  to 
herself.  Nay,  were  it  not  for  one  distressing  physi- 
ological fact  we  should  at  times  take  him  for  a  hal- 
lucination of  Katherine's — one  of  those  strange  de- 
lusions known  to  pathology  which  we  beg  to  assure 
the  author  of  this  book  may  exist  without  the  slight- 
est reference  to  the  Council  of  Trent. 

Surely  never  was  a  lady  author  so  fearful  of  a 
man  as  Olive  Ransom  is  of  her  nameless  priest.  This 
would  be  intelligible  had  a  recreant  Catholic  written 
the  story,  but  that  a  lady  holding  such  pronounced 
views  on  Rome  should  be  afraid  to  show  us  a  priest 
without  his  cassock,  while  convicting  him  of  an  in- 
trigue, is  puzzling,  to  say  the  least.  Not  so  would 
the  doughty  Corelli  have  ordered  the  matter,  and 
she  would  as  a  prize  of  courage  capture  thousands 
of  readers  where  this  book  may  gain  only  tens.  And 
it  seems  the  greater  pity  since,  but  for  this  almost 
unfeminine  coyness,  the  author  of  "A  Woman's 
Heart"  might  have  given  us  a  valid,  finished  piece 
of  work,  instead  of  a  fragmentary  and  inconclusive 
sketch.  Truly  the  rewards  of  daring,  like  the  haz- 
ards, are  nowhere  so  great  as  in  the  province  of  art. 

The  form  which  the  author  has  chosen  for  her 
story  and  the  limits  she  has  set  herself  emphasize 
the  fault  just  pointed  out  and  at  the  same  time  mark 
a  singular  contradiction.  For,  while  many  readers 
will  regard  the  author's  failure  to  bring  the  priest 
upon  the  scene  as  a  confession  of  weakness,  or  at 


296      AT  THE   SIGN   OF  THE   VAN 

least  an  implied  distrust  of  her  powers  (though  it 
may  well  be  only  a  mistaken  theory  of  treatment), 
yet  the  heroine  herself  does  not  seem  to  take  on 
gooseflesh  at  the  thought  of  a  priest  who  is  also  a 
man,  as  witness  these  extracts: 

"Some  time  after  we  are  married  —  some  time 
when  you  are  heavy  with  sleep  —  I  shall  pull  the 
covering  aside  and  kiss  you  right  there  where  the 

heart  beats." 

t  *  *  *  * 

"I  wish  you  were  not  more  than  three  spans  long, 
that  I  might  enfold  you,  kiss  you,  press  you  against 
my  heart  and  unblushing  tell  you  all  that  warms  my 


"Do  you  remember  how  you  used  to  clasp  one 
arm  about  me  and  pull  down  my  collar  with  the 
other  hand  and  bite  my  throat,  and  say  to  my  pro- 
test, 'But  I  like  to  bite  you.'     You  bear!" 
***** 

"I  send  you  a  kiss  for  those  quivering  lips  and  an 
embrace  for  that  warm,  sweet  body  for  every  day 
of  your  dear  life.  .  .  . 

"If  fine  children  are  born  to  parents  who  love 
beyond  all  powers  and  denials,  and  have  suffered 
long  before  at  last  they  are  given  to  each  other, 
how  lovely  of  character  and  fair  of  body  should  our 
dear  children  bel" 


THE  PRIEST  AND  THE  WOMAN    297 

"The  music  is  sweeter  at  vespers  when  you  are 
there,  the  rites  seem  actually  holy  and  God  is 
present  in  body — if  God  can  be  anywhere  in  body. 
But  the  body  I  see  is  your  body  and  it  is  the  God  in 

you  I  adore!" 

***** 

"Do  you  remember  one  evening  when  I  wore  a 
low  bodice,  how  you  bade  me  good  night  with  a 
pressure  of  your  hand,  then,  when  your  eye  rested  a 
moment  on  my  neck  you  started  as  if  swayed  by 
great  pain  and  caught  me  in  your  arms,  crying:  'Oh, 
love,  love,  can  God  torture  me  so  !'  And  you  pushed 
down  the  dress  and  buried  your  face  as  a  man  dying 

of  thirst  would  sink  his  face  to  a  fountain." 
***** 

"Think  of  being  with  you  so  that  I  could  pass  my 
hand  down  the  bare  strength  of  your  arm.  I  should 
swoon  with  delight."  .  .  . 

"I  yearn  for  a  child  who  shall  have  your  sweet- 
ness and  beauty  of  soul  and  body."  .  .  . 

"I  can  think  of  nothing  purer,  sweeter,  fairer  than 
to  love  you  all  my  life,  to  lose  all  sense  of  self  in  the 
fire  of  our  love,  to  be  merged,  my  soul  in  your  soul, 
my  body  in  your  body." 

To  keep  the  object  of  such  passionate  love  and 
longing  clean  out  of  sight,  to  give  him  a  mere 
"thinking  part"  in  the  wings  while  the  audience  are 
craning  frantically  to  get  a  glimpse  at  him,  to  leave 


29 8       AT  THE   SIGN   OF  THE   VAN 

him  in  {Catherine's  inkbottle,  not  even  to  give  him  a 
name — surely  here  is  a  striking  proof  how  the 
woman  novelist  always  falls  down  in  the  rationaliz- 
ing process  of  her  art. 

But  the  book  is  interesting,  for  all  that,  and  it  has 
enough  genuine  feeling  and  sincerity  to  redeem  it 
from  utter  failure.  I  forgive  the  author  her  scraps 
of  Latin  and  Greek,  her  crumbs  of  theological  learn- 
ing, for  the  vigor  and  eloquence  and  tenderness  of 
many  passages.  She  can  write  bitterly,  too,  and  I 
suspect  her  own  soul  has  been  scorched  in  the  flame 
of  those  ever-burning  fires  which  burn  not  the  less 
fiercely  to-day  that  they  are  for  the  most  part  hidden 
from  the  world.  Weak  as  her  polemics  often  are, 
and  heavily  as  they  overweight  the  slight  story, 
nevertheless  they  contain  many  a  telling  truth  barbed 
with  a  woman's  keen  wit,  many  an  appeal  made 
poignant  by  a  woman's  instinctive  hatred  of  hypoc- 
risy and  injustice,  many  a  passionate  cry  that  voices 
the  agony  of  a  woman's  heart,  and  withal  not  a  few 
glimpses  of  that  strangely  intuitive  wisdom  which  is 
vouchsafed  only  to  babes  and  sucklings — and  women 
of  the  spiritual  mould  of  Katherine  Peshconet. 


IX 

BOOKS   THAT  DIE   NOT 

THERE  is  much  poppycock  uttered  by  Prof. 
Maverick  Brander  and  other  learned  par- 
rots in  collegiate  chairs  touching  the  sort 
of  literature  that  "mankind  will  not  willingly  let 
die."  As  a  schoolboy  I  was  led  to  believe  that  in 
the  very  front  row  of  the  eligible  candidates  for  this 
distinction  were  "Marco  Bozzarris,"  "Woodman, 
Spare  That  Tree,"  "Over  the  Hills  to  the  Poor- 
house,"  "Casabianca,"  "Twenty  Years  Ago,"  etc. 
And  it  is  likely  enough  that  these  banalities  may 
survive  so  long  as  there  are  banal  people  in  the 
world — a  good  enough  assurance  of  immortality. 

Herein  is  the  meat  of  the  matter  which  the 
learned  parrots  aforesaid  miss  or  prefer  to  keep  to 
themselves.  I  will  state  it  for  them.  There  is  no 
special,  exclusive  kind  of  literature  that  mankind 
will  not  willingly  let  die;  but  there  are  as  many 
kinds  as  mankind  are  various.  Good — bad,  clever 
— stupid,  moral — immoral,  religious — irreligious, 
virtuous — vicious,  wise — foolish,  fanciful — prosaic, 

299 


300      AT  THE   SIGN   OF  THE   VAN 

and  so  on :  I  could  pick  you  books  in  every  class  that 
have  come  down  the  ages. 

I  cannot  even  leave  the  professors  their  pet  truism 
that  a  book  in  order  to  live  must  have  great  orig- 
inality or  literary  merit.  There  are  plenty  of  books 
that  have  defied  the  centuries  without  either.  A 
man  can  live  without  brains;  why  not  a  book?  An- 
swer me  that ! 

Again,  it  is  not  to  be  disputed  that  no  sort  of  book 
is  so  anxiously  sought  and  jealously  preserved  as 
the  immoral  book,  or  book  of  free  gallantry.  (I 
exclude  works  merely  or  avowedly  pornographic.) 
From  Petronius  Arbiter  to  Boccaccio,  from  Bran- 
tome  and  Saint  Simon  to  Pierre  Louys,  from  Chau- 
cer to  Samuel  Pepys  and  Defoe,  and  so  down  to  the 
libidinous  Reynolds,  this  is  a  remarkably  fertile  and 
copious  literature.  Booksellers'  catalogues  will  ad- 
vise you  that  no  item  of  any  importance  therein  has 
been  lost.  Also  the  prices  are  always  somewhat 
higher  than  for  ordinary  books,  perhaps  because  of 
the  moral  taboo  on  them,  perhaps  because  one  does 
not  count  his  pennies  too  shrewdly  when  like  John 
Gilpin  he  goes,  "on  pleasure  bent." 

Notable  amongst  this  class  of  books  are  the 
"memoirs"  of  court  ladies  of  uneasy  or  facile  virtue 
harking  back  to  the  Seventeenth  or  Eighteenth  cen- 
tury— even  from  their  ashes  these  lively  ladies  in- 
flame us !  Such  books  are  commonly  very  expensive, 
being  the  favorite  reading  of  the  American  aris- 


BOOKS   THAT    DIE    NOT          301 

tocracy.  The  morals  of  the  haughty  heroines  were 
no  different,  however,  from  those  of  Defoe's  "Moll 
Flanders,"  a  veracious  and  valuable  history,  the 
price  of  which  is  rarely  beyond  a  modest  purse. 

The  memoirs  of  Count  De  Grammont  is  regarded 
as  one  of  the  books  which  mankind  will  not  willingly 
let  die.  Sir  Walter  Scott  edited  the  classic  transla- 
tion, and  he  says:  "As  a  merely  agreeable  book,  it 
perhaps  deserves  that  character  more  than  any 
which  was  ever  written."  Voltaire  praised  it  and 
Gibbon  pronounced  it  "a  favorite  work  with  all  per- 
sons who  have  any  pretensions  to  taste."  Madame 
de  Stael  used  to  say  that  it  contained,  with  less  mat- 
ter, more  interest  than  any  book  she  knew.  Macau- 
lay  characterized  it  as  of  all  books  the  most  exquis- 
itely French,  both  in  spirit  and  manner.  (By  the 
way,  the  writer,  Anthony  Hamilton,  was  an  Irish- 
man.) Nay,  it  is  even  asserted  that  Thackeray 
found  in  Grammont's  Memoirs  the  secret  of  "Es- 
mond" and  "Barry  Lyndon." 

Now,  without  mincing  words  about  the  matter, 
what  is  the  real  character  of  this  book  for  which 
such  eminent  suffrages  have  been  given?  Frankly 
and  fairly,  then,  it  is  one  of  the  most  indecent  and 
shameless  books  in  the  world.  There  is  hardly  one 
honorable  sentiment  expressed  in  this  book,  save  as 
the  author  speaks  with  covert  leer  or  tongue  in 
cheek.  The  plain  virtues  of  humanity  are  derided 
therein  with  all  manner  of  foul  mockery,  but  none  is 


302      AT  THE   SIGN   OF   THE   VAN 

so  foully  and  persistently  mocked  as  the  modesty  of 
womanhood.  On  the  other  hand,  profligacy,  lechery 
and  libertinage  receive  the  accolade  on  every  page. 

De  Grammont,  a  Frenchman,  was  mostly  of  the 
Restoration  Era  and,  upon  his  banishment  by  the 
great  Louis,  received  a  warm  welcome  at  the  court 
of  the  merry  Charles.  "For  those  were  the  days 
which  (says  Macaulay)  are  never  to  be  recalled 
without  a  blush — the  days  of  servitude  without  loy- 
alty and  sensuality  without  love,  of  dwarfish  talents 
and  gigantic  vices,  the  paradise  of  cold  hearts  and 
narrow  minds,  the  golden  age  of  the  coward,  the 
bigot,  and  the  slave." 

A  more  thoroughly  vicious  book  (outside  the 
catalogue  of  avowed  pornography)  was  never  writ- 
ten. In  no  book  that  I  am  acquainted  with  is  the 
honor  of  womanhood  so  filthily  handled,  as  at  a  rout 
of  satyrs.  To  invent  or  indite  or  utter  a  foul  jest 
on  a  lady  (vide  the  untranslatable  epigram  upon 
Miss  Wells)  was  not  deemed  misbecoming  to  a 
Courtier  of  England  or  a  Gentleman  of  France.  In 
truth  he  was  capable  of  far  worse  things,  such  as 
falsely  swearing  away  a  woman's  honor  (see  Chap- 
ter VIII  of  the  Memoirs),  or  dropping  an  unspeak- 
able innuendo  (see  remarks  on  Miss  Hobart — 
Chapter  IX). 

The  business  of  De  Grammont — if  he  can  be  said 
to  have  had  any — was  gambling  and  his  chief  amuse- 
ment gallantry  (i.  e.  seduction  and  fornication).  In 
both  these  specialties  he  is  set  forth  as  having  been 


BOOKS   THAT    DIE    NOT          303 

enviably  successful,  but  he  prefers  to  give  us  in  de- 
tail the  amorous  intrigues  of  others,  such  as  the 
Merry  Monarch  himself,  the  Duke  of  York  (who 
became  James  II)  and  various  noblemen  of  the 
court.  As  rotten  and  heartless  and  despicably 
worthless  a  crew  were  they  as  ever  existed,  and  one 
thinks  with  amazement  of  the  honest  English  people 
supporting  those  lecherous  parasites  in  grandeur — 
they  are  still  supporting  their  ill-derived  descen- 
dants !  After  more  than  two  hundred  years  the  page 
yet  stinks  that  tells  of  their  "gallantries" — but  the 
book  is  one  that  mankind  will  not  willingly  let  die. 

In  this  immortal  class  also  must  be  placed  the 
Poetry  of  my  Lord  Rochester, — like  Grammont,  a 
shining  ornament  of  the  Merry  Reign.  Of  all  the 
rakes  of  the  Restoration  Rochester  has  left  the  most 
profligate  reputation.  Most  of  the  stories  told  of 
him  are  unprintable  in  our  day.  He  was  contin- 
uously drunk  for  several  years  and  he  died  of  his 
excesses  at  thirty-three.  "They  say  he  made  a  good 
end,"  and  Bishop  Burnett  thinks  he  might  have 
mended  his  ways  had  he  lived.  This  he  could  easily 
have  done,  it  may  be  granted,  without  attaining  any 
enviable  degree  of  virtue. 

Rochester  was  the  laureate  of  the  Stuart  lupanar, 
and  his  poetry  is  doubtless  the  most  vilely  obscene 
product,  the  rank  consummate  flower  of  that  age, 
so  rich  in  works  that  disgrace  both  talent  and  human 
nature.  De  Grammont  and  his  biographer  justly 


3o4      AT  THE   SIGN   OF   THE   VAN 

admired  those  infamous  poems — I  need  only  say 
that,  endowed  as  I  am  with  a  tolerably  strong  mental 
digestion,  it  is  my  enduring  regret  that  I  ever  looked 
into  them.  .  .  .  My  Lord  Rochester  died  in 
1680  and  his  precious  poems  continue  to  be  repub- 
lished  from  time  to  time:  being  apparently  among 
those  works  which  mankind  will  not  willingly  let  die. 

Voltaire's  "Pucelle"  and  "Candide"  remain  to  this 
day  among  the  most  popular  of  his  works. 

The  late  Mark  Twain  wrote  a  brochure  called  "A 
Fireside  Conversation  at  the  Court  of  the  Tudors," 
which,  from  its  gamey  ripeness  of  expression  and  un- 
conventional candor  of  incident,  may  possibly  belong 
to  the  class  of  books  under  consideration.  I  have 
never  seen  the  work — not  many  people  have — but  a 
literary  friend  of  mine  used  to  quote  appetizing  ex- 
tracts from  it.  Frankly,  my  life  will  seem  to  me 
incomplete  unless  some  day  I  shall  possess  a  copy 
of  this  book.  I  suspect  Mark  was  a  bit  shy  of  it  in 
later  years — but  who  can  doubt  that  it  will  live  as 
long  as  anything  of  his?  .  .  . 

I  said  above  that  stupid  books  live  as  well  as 
clever  ones.  This,  however,  is  no  longer  true  of 
books  of  sermons.  A  haunter  of  old-book  stalls,  I 
have  noted  a  steady  depreciation  of  this  kind  of 
literary  lumber  for  some  years  back.  Books  of  ser- 
mons and  of  theology  seem  indeed  to  be  preferred 
favorites  amongst  the  works  that  mankind  most 
willingly  let  die. 


X 

ON   THE    USE   OF   BOOKS 

THE  man  who  lives  the  life  of  the  mind  must 
have  a  care  that  his  books  do  not  master 
him.  Of  what  avail  the  riches  of  his 
library  if  they  leave  himself  poor  and  barren?  This 
is  the  great  peril  of  the  studious  life,  as  Emerson 
has  pointed  out.  Reading  can  be  made  a  terrible 
waste  of  power.  It  is  a  duel  in  which  the  student  is 
always  overmatched — a  dissipation  in  which  he  en- 
gages all  and  recovers  nothing — a  complete  loss  of 
power  and  initiative  in  the  achievement  of  others. 
The  end  is  always  the  same — so  easy  to  read,  and 
so  terribly  hard  to  write ! 

Montaigne  was  admirably  shrewd  in  this  as  in 
most  things.  Though  he  quotes  as  much  as  any 
original  writer  and  much  more  than  is  modernly  the 
fashion,  he  would  not  open  a  book  for  two  or  three 
months  at  a  time.  This  was  giving  the  rein  to  his 
own  genius, — for  in  these  matters  you  must  ride  or 
be  ridden.  To  use  your  books  and  not  to  be  used  by 
them, — that  should  be  the  rule  of  every  thinking 
and,  especially,  writing  man. 

305 


306      AT  THE   SIGN   OF   THE  VAN 

Tragedies  have  attended  the  abuse  of  books. 
Daudet  tells  us  of  a  Frenchman  known  to  him,  who 
during  many  years  read  and  collected  books  on 
Shakespeare,  planning  to  produce  a  great  work  on 
the  subject.  But  the  more  books  he  got  together 
and  the  more  he  read,  the  more  hopeless  became  the 
poor  man's  project.  So  his  life  wasted  away  in 
fruitless  efforts  to  begin  his  task — there  was  always 
some  new  book  to  get  or  some  authority  to  look  up 
or  verify  before  he  could  really  settle  down  to  work. 
He  spent  his  life  and  his  fortune  in  this  barren  en- 
terprise which,  like  a  great  wen,  sucked  all  useful 
energy  and  ambition  out  of  him.  Daudet's  picture 
of  the  poor  man  surrounded  by  his  library, — a  spe- 
cies of  Frankenstein  overawing  and  enslaving  him, — 
is  memorable  for  its  truth  and  pathos.  He  died 
without  achieving  the  title  page  of  his  great  work — 
but  kept  on  reading  and  collecting  to  the  end. 

A  tragedy  of  the  depths.  But  even  so  great  a 
writer  and  scholar  as  Macaulay  must  be  judged,  in 
some  degree,  a  victim  of  books.  The  pedantry 
which  he  succeeded  to  some  degree  in  excluding  from 
his  formal  literary  work  peeps  out  constantly  in  his 
Letters  and  Journals.  Nor  does  it  increase  our  re- 
spect for  Macaulay,  sterling  as  he  is  in  most  re- 
spects, both  as  scholar  and  writer.  One  feels  that 
so  great  a  man  should  not  have  been  so  arrant  a 
slave  to  his  books;  that  had  he  read  far  less  the 
world  had  gained  more  from  him;  that  the  prodig- 


ON   THE    USE    OF    BOOKS         307 

ious  memory  of  which  we  hear  so  much  was  actually 
a  handicap  to  the  original  genius  of  the  man.  One 
wearies  of  the  list  of  books  read — Greek,  Latin, 
Italian,  Spanish,  Portuguese,  etc., — and  put  forward 
as  bespeaking  admiration.  We  are  told  that  he  read 
Photinus,  a  little  known  Greek  author,  and  that  the 
Oxford  dons  were  thereby  moved  to  exceeding  won- 
der. Well,  and  what  of  it?  We  can't  help  thinking 
the  great  man  might  have  been  better  employed,  for 
posterity  and  reputation.  One  might  cite  a  hundred 
instances  of  the  pedantry  which,  I  dare  believe, 
sapped  even  the  vigorous  powers  of  Macaulay  and 
which  he  would  have  been  quick  to  ridicule  and  con- 
demn in  another. 

He  was  conscious  of  the  weakness  indeed  and  re- 
solved to  combat  it,  as  on  going  out  to  India  when 
he  writes  that  henceforward  he  purposes  to  read 
like  "a  man  of  the  world."  But  presently  he  was 
again  in  fetters  to  the  old  passion. — 

"I  read  insatiably;  the  Iliad  and  Odyssey,  Virgil, 
Horace,  Caesar's  Commentaries,  Dante,  Petrarch, 
Ariosto,  Tasso,  Don  Quixote,  Gibbon's  Rome, 
Mill's  India,  all  the  seventy  volumes  of  Voltaire, 
Sismondi's  History  of  France  and  the  seven  thick 
folios  of  the  Biographica  Britannica.  ...  As 
soon  as  I  reach  Calcutta  I  intend  to  read  Herod- 
otus again." 

He  did,  faith,  and  had  quite  a  little  learned  diver- 
sion besides. — 


3o8       AT  THE   SIGN   OF  THE   VAN 

"During  the  last  thirteen  months  I  have  read 
.^Eschylus  twice;  Sophocles  twice;  Euripides  once; 
Pindar  twice;  Callimachus ;  Apollonius  Rhodius; 
Quintus  Calaber;  Theocritus  twice;  Herodotus; 
Thucydides;  almost  all  Xenophon's  works;  almost 
all  Plato;  Aristotle's  Politics,  and  a  good  deal  of  his 
Organon,  besides  dipping  elsewhere  in  him;  the 
whole  of  Plutarch's  Lives;  almost  half  of  Lucian; 
two  or  three  books  of  Athenaeus;  Plautus  twice; 
Terence  twice;  Lucretius  twice;  Catullus;  Tibullus; 
Propertius;  Lucan;  Statius;  Silius  Italicus;  Livy;  Vel- 
leius  Paterculus;  Sallust;  Caesar;  and,  lastly,  Cicero." 

A  little  later  he  mentions  having  turned  over 
Valerius  Maximus,  Annasus  Florus,  Lucius  Am- 
pelius,  and  Aurelius  Victor,  besides  having  gone 
through  Phsedrus  and  being  at  the  moment  deep  in 
Tacitus  and  Seutonius. 

If  such  was  Macaulay  in  the  green  leaf — he  was 
at  this  time  still  under  forty — some  idea  may  be 
formed  of  him  in  the  dry. 

In  1838  he  made  a  tour  of  the  Continent,  but  that 
he  was  still  the  man  of  books  on  his  holiday  is  quite 
evident  from  his  Journal.  On  his  birthday  he 
"thought  of  Job,  Swift,  and  Antony."  At  sight  of 
the  olive  trees  near  Florence  he  thought  of  "the 
veneration  in  which  the  tree  was  held  by  the  Athen- 
ians; of  Lysias's  speech;  of  the  fine  ode  in  the  Edi- 
pus  at  Colonus;  of  Virgil  and  Lorenzo  de'  Medici. 
In  Florence  he  notes  that  he  was  "up  before  eight 


ON    THE    USE    OF    BOOKS         309 

and  read  Boiardo  at  breakfast."  A  few  days  later 
he  picks  up  a  little  Mass-book,  "and  read  for  the 
first  time  in  my  life, — strange  and  almost  disgrace- 
ful as  it  may  appear,  the  service  of  the  Mass  from 
beginning  to  end."  He  didn't  find  the  Latinity  to 
his  taste,  and  doubted  whether  even  Claudian  would 
have  understood  it.  Surely  the  pedant  ambitious  to 
have  read  everything  was  never  more  effectively  dis- 
closed than  in  the  words  which  I  have  put  into 
italics. 

But  perhaps  the  most  amusing  instance  of  Macau- 
lay's  unconscious  pedantry  is  yet  to  be  cited.  Upon 
leaving  Florence,  this  entry  occurs  in  his  Journal : 

"My  journey  lay  over  the  field  of  Thrasymenus, 
and  as  soon  as  the  sun  rose  I  read  Livy's  description 
of  the  scene  and  wished  that  I  had  brought  Polybius 
too.  However,  it  mattered  little,,  for  I  could  see 
absolutely  nothing." 

This  was  not  Byron's  method  in  leading  Childe 
Harold  over  the  historic  places  of  Europe.  It  is 
very  likely  that  he  had  neither  Livy  nor  Polybius 
with  him  (and  rather  doubtful  if  he  could  freely 
construe  either)  when,  some  twenty  odd  years  be- 
fore Macaulay's  tour,  he  visited  the  field  of  Thrasy- 
menus and  commemorated  in  one  or  two  splendid 
stanzas  the  great  battle  between  Roman  and  Cartha- 
ginian whose  fury  was  such  that  under  the  feet  of 
the  combatants — 

"An  earthquake  rolled  unheededly  away  I" 


310      AT  THE   SIGN   OF  THE   VAN 

But  then  Byron  was  "ill-educated,"  in  Macaulay's 
view  (Leigh  Hunt  sneered  that  his  reading  was  con- 
fined to  Gibbon)  ;  and  it  is  certain  from  the  quality 
no  less  than  the  quantity  of  his  performance,  that  he 
was  no  slave  of  the  library  and  did  not  suffer  books 
to  come  between  him  and  life.  When  he  did  use 
them,  it  was  as  Aladdin  commanded  the  service  of 
the  Slaves  of  the  Lamp. 


XI 

BYRON 

MR.  ANDREW  LANG,  not  long  before 
his  death,  traced  for  an  American  jour- 
nal a  survey  and  judgment  of  the  liter- 
ature of  the  Nineteenth  age.  Readable,  and  provo- 
cative, and  entertaining  surely  it  is,  for  the  hand 
that  wrote  the  "Letters  to  Dead  Authors"  had  not 
lost  its  cunning,  nor  the  charming  literary  style  its 
wonted  allurement.  But  the  latest  awards  and  stric- 
tures of  Mr.  Lang  are  not  less  to  be  challenged  than 
those  of  yore — nay,  they  are  the  more  to  be  com- 
bated, since  age  had  brought  to  the  charmer  an  un- 
pleasing  dogmatism.  Mr.  Lang  did  not,  could  not, 
persuade  all  of  us  when  his  humor  was  of  its  mel- 
lowest and  the  glamour  of  youth,  that  most  potent 
aid  to  heresy,  wrought  in  his  favor  its  own  illusion : 
shall  he  fare  better  now  when  the  Jester,  in  spite  of 
himself,  takes  on  something  of  the  bitter  note  of 
Ecclesiastes?  .  .  . 

In  his  latest  disparagement  of  the  greatest  Eng- 
lish poet  of  the  last  century,  Mr.  Lang  is  only  hark- 
ing back  to  his  "old  lunes."  The  modern  school  of 
English  literary  criticism  has  found  in  Byron  its 


312      AT  THE   SIGN   OF  THE   VAN 

greatest  stumbling  block.  Since  the  passing  of 
Matthew  Arnold,  there  has  been  perhaps  no  oracu- 
lar voice  in  English  literary  criticism;  but  the  voice 
of  Andrew  Lang,  if  not  oracular,  has  at  least  been 
raised  with  persistency. 

Now  Matthew  Arnold,  exclusive  as  he  was  in  his 
literary  partialities,  dealt  more  fairly  with  Byron 
than  Mr.  Lang.  For,  though  Arnold's  exigent  cul- 
ture and  sense  of  form  were  revolted  by  the  noble 
lord's  crying  sins  against  pure  artistry,  yet  he  appre- 
ciated justly  the  importance  of  Byron  as  a  force  in 
literature,  crediting  him  (after  Swinburne)  with  the 
"imperishable  excellence  of  sincerity  and  strength" ; 
and,  with  much  enlightening  criticism,  he  did  not  at- 
tempt to  degrade  the  author  of  "Childe  Harold" 
from  his  lofty  rank.  Indeed,  Matthew  Arnold  reck- 
oned Byron,  as  a  literary  power,  next  in  order  to 
Shakespeare  and  Milton — the  established  European 
verdict  has  long  awarded  him  the  second  place. 

Mr.  Lang  is  not  better  founded  in  his  classics  or 
his  prosody  than  was  Matthew  Arnold,  but  he  is 
ambitious,  at  least,  of  seeming  to  have  more  courage 
than  the  latter,  for  he  actually  proposes  to  unhorse 
the  "Childe"  at  this  late  day.  So  have  we  read  that 
once 

A  falcon  tow'ring  in  her  pride  o'  place 
Was  by  a  mousing  owl  hawked  at  and  killed. 


BYRON  313 

Yet  the  bold  Andrew's  courage  is,  after  all,  of  a 
strongly  marked  Scotch  variety — he  will  get  some 
other  reckless  body  to  lead  the  way  and  take  the 
first  burden  of  cursing.  And  thus  he  does  it: 

"  'Byron,'  says  Mr.  Saintsbury,  (sic)  'seems  to  me 
a  poet  distinctly  of  the  second  class,  and  not  even  of 
the  best  kind  of  second,  inasmuch  as  his  greatness  is 
derived  chiefly  from  a  sort  of  parody,  a  sort  of  imi- 
tation of  the  qualities  of  the  first.  His  verse  is  to 
the  greatest  poetry  what  melodrama  is  to  tragedy, 
what  plaster  is  to  marble,  what  pinchbeck  is  to 
gold.'  " 

Prof.  Saintsbury  is  a  respectable  and  laborious 
plodder  who  has  written  many  volumes  of  criticism 
upon  literature  which  might  have  been  suffered  to 
speak  for  itself — nay,  which,  in  spite  of  Prof.  Saints- 
bury,  will  continue  to  speak  for  itself.  One  of  his 
critical  achievements  was  to  brand  Dickens  with  the 
charge  of  vulgarity  for  daring  to  write  a  true  history 
of  England.  Mr.  Lang  holds  identical  views  as  to 
Dickens.  Arcades  ambo! 

Having  thus  pushed  another  before  him  into  the 
breach,  the  canny  Andrew  finds  heart  to  say: 

"Such,  however  unpopular  they  may  be,  are  my 
own  candid  sentiments,  for  though  from  childhood 
I  could,  and  did,  read  all  our  great  poets  with 
pleasure,  it  was  not  with  the  kind  of  pleasure  which 
Byron  in  his  satire  and  his  declamation  could  occa- 
sionally give  me." 


3i4      AT  THE   SIGN   OF  THE  VAN 

Is  not  this  a  luminous  confession?  And  how  art- 
ful is  the  suggestion  that  from  childhood  the  preter- 
natural Andrew  discriminated  justly  touching  the 
poet  about  whom  the  rest  of  the  world  had  gone 
wrong ! 

There  can  be  no  greater  curse,  in  an  artistic  sense, 
than  to  be  one  part  poet  and  three  parts  critic — the 
equation  of  Andrew  Lang.  How  differently  a  real 
poet  would  have  felt  is  made  clear  to  us  by  the  con- 
fession of  Alfred  Tennyson — a  dreaming  boy  of 
fifteen,  when  the  news  came  of  Byron's  death: 

"I  thought  that  everything  was  over  and  finished 
for  everyone — that  nothing  else  mattered!  I  re- 
member I  walked  out  alone  and  carved  'Byron  is 
deadl'  into  the  sandstone." 


We  shall  agree  with  Mr.  Lang  that  Byron  is 
(often)  monotonous,  that  he  is  rhetorical,  that  his 
versification  is  (sometimes)  incredibly  bad,  and  that 
he  is  (sometimes)  "more  obscure,  mainly  by  dint  of 
hurry,  bad  printing  and  bad  grammar,  than  Mr. 
Browning."  All  of  which  is  true — as  true  as  that 
Shakespeare  is  often  prolix,  tiresome,  obscure;  that 
his  clowns  are  not  infrequently  the  most  insufferable 
nuisances  ever  put  upon  the  stage,  raising  a  hyper- 
bolic idea  of  the  stupidity  of  the  Elizabethan  audi- 
ences; that  scores  of  pages  preserved  from  oblivion 


BYRON  315 

by  his  better  work,  are  not  of  the  slightest  literary 
value. 

But  the  blemishes  upon  Shakespeare  do  not  blind 
us  to  his  essential  greatness  (though  they  were  too 
much  for  Voltaire),  nor  should  the  blemishes  upon 
Byron  have  a  like  unhappy  effect.  Mr.  Lang  "can 
not  understand  the  furore  which  was  so  much  the 
child  of  his  title,  his  beauty,  his  recklessness  and  his 
studiously  cultivated  air  of  mystery."  To  one  who 
in  short  clothes  was  able  to  disparage  Byron,  the 
"furore"  will,  of  course,  present  some  difficulty;  but 
for  us  who,  far  removed  from  the  spell  of  that 
splendid  personality,  still  give  thanks  for  the  genius 
that  aided  so  powerfully  in  the  spread  of  the  new 
and  liberal  gospel  of  humanity  which  ushered  in  the 
Nineteenth  age — for  us  the  fact  is  intelligible 
enough,  but  of  infinitely  less  significance  than 
Byron's  share  in  striking  the  keynote  of  the  new 
time. 

Byron's  identification  of  himself  with  the  world- 
spirit,  so  dreadfully  in  travail  at  the  dawn  of  the 
last  century,  even  more  than  his  poetical  achieve- 
ment, determines  his  greatness.  For  men  are  more 
than  metres  and  the  prophet  is  greater  than  the  poet. 
But  even  with  regard  to  his  poetical  achievement,  I  do 
not  believe  that  the  Langs  and  the  Saintsburys  will 
ever  be  able  to  take  a  stone  from  that  high  column. 
There  has  been,  for  some  time  past,  greater  artifice 
in  carving  heads  upon  cherry  stones,  and  a  surprising 


316      AT   THE   SIGN   OF   THE   VAN 

degree  of  metrical  skill,  which  none  has  better  exem- 
plified than  Mr.  Lang  himself,  in  his  fortunate  poet- 
ical conceits.  In  the  natural  order  the  granite  cut- 
ters are  followed  by  the  lapidaries  and  polishers; 
for  there  is  much  display  of  pretty  gewgaws  on  the 
lower  levels  of  Parnassus.  But  what  poet  since  that 
evil  day  at  Missolonghi, — 

Sad  Missolonghi,  sorrowing  yet 

O'er  him,  the  noblest  star  of  fame 
That  e'er  in  life's  young  glory  set, — 

has  given  the  world  such  verse  as  the  stanzas  on 
Waterloo,  the  Storm  in  the  Alps,  the  awakening  of 
Chillon's  prisoner,  the  Bridge  of  Sighs,  with  Venice, 
"throned  on  her  hundred  isles,"  the  Gladiator, 
"butchered  to  make  a  Roman  holiday,"  the  mar- 
moreal apostrophe  to  the  ocean,  the  "Isles  of 
Greece" — nay,  even  the  Wreck  in  "Don  Juan"? 
Shall  we  rob  poetry  of  its  garland  and  memory  of 
its  richest  treasures  at  the  bidding  of  Andrew 
•Lang? — 

Did  not  Byron  write  in  his  "Vision  of  Judgment" 
the  best  satirical-burlesque  poem  in  the  language — 
so  incomparably  the  best,  in  truth,  that  no  English 
poet  of  mark  has  since  ventured  to  enter  that  field? 
And  what  poem  of  the  Nineteenth  century  has  more 
value  as  a  human  document  than  "Don  Juan"? 
What  literary  work,  verse  or  prose,  has  done  so 
much  to  clear  the  air  of  the  social  cant  and  hypocrisy 


BYRON  317 

which  it  has  been  the  century's  chief  mission  to  get 
rid  of,  but  of  which  a  vast  deal  yet  remains  in  the 
world?  I  take  up  my  Taine — an  excellent  critic, 
Mr.  Lang! — and  I  read: 

"England  was  at  the  height  of  war  with  France 
and  thought  it  was  fighting  for  morals  and  liberty. 
In  English  eyes,  at  this  time,  church  and  constitu- 
tion were  holy  things — beware  how  you  touch  them, 
if  you  would  not  become  a  public  enemy!  In  this 
fit  of  national  passion  and  Protestant  severity,  who- 
soever publicly  avowed  liberal  ideas  and  manners 
seemed  an  incendiary  and  stirred  up  against  himself 
the  instincts  of  prosperity,  the  doctrines  of  moral- 
ists, the  interests  of  politicians  and  the  prejudices  of 
the  people.  Byron  chose  this  moment  to  praise  Vol- 
taire and  Rousseau,  to  admire  Napoleon,  to  avow 
himself  a  skeptic,  to  plead  for  nature  and  pleasure 
against  cant  and  rule,  to  say  that  high  English  so- 
ciety, debauched  and  hypocritical,  made  phrases  and 
killed  men,  to  preserve  their  sinecures  and  rotten 
boroughs.  As  though  political  hatred  were  not 
enough,  he  contracted,  in  addition,  literary  animos- 
ities; attacked  the  whole  body  of  critics;  ran  down 
the  poets  of  the  new  school,  declaring  that  the  most 
celebrated  of  them  were  Claudians,  men  of  the  later 
empire." 

Finally  he  stood  at  bay,  with  the  whole  British 
pack,  forty-power  parsons,  politicians  and  poet- 
asters in  full  cry  after  him. 


3i8       AT  THE   SIGN   OF   THE   VAN 

Dogs  or  men! — for  I  flatter  you  in  saying 
That  ye  are  dogs — your  betters  far — ye  may 
Read  or  read  not  what  I  am  now  essaying 
To  show  you  what  ye  are  in  every  way. 

And  thus  he  came  to  write  his  masterpiece,  "Don 
Juan,"  an  unequal  work,  artistically  considered,  yet 
the  poet's  most  notable  contribution  to  the  gospel  of 
human  liberation.  With  all  its  faults,  it  stands 
unique  in  literature  and  only  a  genius  of  the  first 
order  could  have  produced  it.  "Never  was  seen  in 
such  a  clear  glass,"  says  Taine,  "the  tumult  of  a 
great  genius,  the  inner  life  of  a  genuine  poet,  always 
impassioned,  inexhaustibly  fertile  and  creative,  in 
whom  suddenly,  successively,  bloomed  all  human 
emotions  and  ideas — sad,  lofty,  low,  hustling  one 
another,  mutually  impeded,  like  swarms  of  insects, 
that  go  on  humming  and  feeding  on  flowers  in  the 
mud.  He  has  so  much  wit,  so  sudden,  so  biting, 
such  a  prodigality  of  knowledge,  ideas,  images, 
picked  up  from  the  four  corners  of  the  horizon,  that 
we  are  captivated,  transported  beyond  limits." 

Mr.  Lang  would  have  us  believe  that  the  verse- 
lets  of  John  Keats  are  of  vastly  more  importance; 
and  so  he  gives  us  the  old  patter  about  Byron's 
fame  owing  much  to  his  rank,  and  good  looks,  and 
personal  histrionics.  Some  eclat  certainly  came 
from  these  circumstances  being  conjoined  to  the  pos- 
session of  great  genius;  and  that  is  all.  At  this  late 


BYRON  319 

day,  it  is  astonishing  that  a  critic  of  Mr.  Lang's  pre- 
tensions should  raise  the  puerile  question.  The 
truth  is,  that  the  iconoclasts  who  aim  their  feeble 
missiles  against  Byron  are  in  the  insane  condition 
of  those  who  attempt  a  work  despaired  of  alike  by 
gods  and  reasonable  men.  .  .  . 

I  shall  not  insult  Mr.  Lang,  literary  encyclopaedia 
that  he  is,  by  asking  him,  ever  so  mildly,  how  it  was 
that  Lord  Thurlow's  rank  failed  to  save  him  from 
utter  damnation  as  a  poetaster;  nor  shall  I  inquire 
where  are  the  volumes  of  the  Earl  of  Carlisle  upon 
whom  (though  a  relative)  Byron  fleshed  his  maiden 
satire.  Mr.  Lang  well  knows  that  not  a  single  liter- 
ary pretender,  lacking  Horace's  "kindly  vein  of 
genius,"  was  ever  snatched  from  oblivion  by  a  for- 
tune or  a  title.  The  names  of  a  few  such  are  indeed 
recalled  with  the  sort  of  odium  attaching  to  the  per- 
son who  made  an  indecorous  noise  in  the  Roman 
Senate. 

The  eminent  critic  quoted  above — who,  although 
a  Frenchman,  has  written  the  only  readable  history 
of  English  literature — has  thus  keenly  and  surely 
touched  the  spring  of  British  prejudice  against  Lord 
Byron : 

"He  is  so  great  and  so  English  that  from  him 
alone  we  shall  learn  more  truths  of  his  country  and 
of  his  age  than  from  all  the  rest  together.  His  ideas 
were  banned  during  his  life;  it  has  been  attempted 
to  depreciate  his  genius  since  his  death.  To  this  day 


320      AT  THE   SIGN   OF  THE   VAN 

English  critics  are  unjust  to  him.  He  fought  all  his 
life  against  the  society  from  which  he  came;  and, 
during  his  life,  as  after  his  death,  he  suffered  the 
pain  of  the  resentment  which  he  provoked  and  the 
repugnance  to  which  he  gave  rise." 


On  the  eve  of  his  last  fateful  journey  to  Greece, 
Byron  said  that  he  had  taken  poetry  for  lack  of 
better;  that  it  was  not  his  fit  work,  and  that  if  he 
lived  ten  years  more  the  world  should  see  something 
else  from  him  than  verses. 

"What  is  a  poet?  What  is  he  worth?  What 
does  he  do?  He  is  a  babbler!" 

And  weary  of  his  dreams,  weary  of  the  world's 
applause,  sick  of  his  unchallenged  but  impotent 
glory,  he  sought  a  change  in  heroical  action  and 
died,  though  with  sword  scarcely  unsheathed,  for 
Greece  and  freedom. 

The  great  poet  deceived  himself.  He  had  done 
his  fit  work  in  expressing  the  revolt  of  the  spirit  of 
his  age  against  the  prescriptions  of  caste  and  creed; 
in  voicing  its  aspirations  for  the  ideal  of  a  just 
democracy.  This  also  is  the  better  part  of  his  poetic 
fame.  Well  might  he  have  said  in  the  language  of 
another  great  poet,  his  own  spiritual  heir  and  dis- 
ciple : 

"I  do  not  know  if  I  shall  have  merited  the  placing 
of  a  laurel  wreath  upon  my  bier.  I  have  never  laid 


BYRON  321 

much  store  in  the  glory  of  poetical  fame,  and 
whether  my  song  be  praised  or  blamed,  it  matters 
little  to  me.  But  lay  a  sword  on  my  coffin-lid,  for 
I  have  been  a  steadfast  soldier  in  the  war  of  the 
liberation  of  humanity!" 

To  Byron,  as  to  Heine,  humanity  accords  both  the 
laurel  and  the  sword. 


XII 

A  SUPER-TRAMP 

WH.  DAVIES,  a  new  and  remarkable 
English  poet,  has  written  a  book  in 
•  prose  which  Bernard  Shaw  named  for 
him,  characteristically,  "The  Autobiography  of  a 
Super-Tramp."  It  is  the  story  of  many  years  of  the 
poet's  life  bridging  youth  and  manhood,  which  he 
passed  mainly  as  a  tramp  and  beggar  both  in  Eng- 
land and  in  this  country. 

I  hardly  know  of  a  book  to  compare  with  this; 
too  sordid  to  be  in  any  real  sense  charming;  too 
true  perhaps  to  be  a  work  of  art.  Yet  with  all  its 
defects,  it  may  fairly  be  proposed  as  an  example  of 
the  sober  truth  that  not  seldom  in  real  life  steals  the 
ground  from  the  best  efforts  of  romance. 

By  his  own  account,  the  author  had  little  regular 
schooling  and  for  years,  as  he  tells  us,  in  a  memor- 
able phrase,  Drink  was  his  captain.  Yet  his  book  is 
a  masterpiece  in  its  way,  plain,  simple  but  enor- 
mously engaging;  while  in  point  of  style  it  often 
reads  like  a  modern  echo  of  Swift  or  Bunyan.  Mr. 
Shaw  justly  says  in  his  clever  preface :  "Though  it 

322 


A    SUPER-TRAMP  323 

is  only  in  verse  that  he  (the  author)  writes  exquis- 
itely, yet  this  book,  which  is  printed  as  it  is  written, 
without  any  academic  corrections  from  the  point  of 
view  of  the  Perfect  Commercial  Letter  Writer,  is 
worth  reading  by  literary  experts  for  its  style 
alone."  The  familiar  miracle  (I  may  add)  of  the 
born  literary  man  getting  his  equipment  by  hook  or 
crook,  to  the  confusion  of  those  who  cannot  write 
even  by  dint  of  sounding  university  degrees. 

I  have  but  one  serious  fault  to  find  with  Mr. 
Davies,  and  it  is  the  chief  artistic  shortcoming  of  an 
otherwise  admirable  piece  of  work:  he  rarely 
makes  his  tramps  speak,  as  they  act,  to  the  life.  A 
strained  regard  for  the-  sensibilities  of  the  polite 
reader  (who  is  even  more  exigent  with  us  than  in 
England,  as  Mr.  Zangwill  complains)  has  doubtless 
led  him  into  this  error,  and  it  is  much  to  be  re- 
gretted. But  for  this  we  should  have  in  "Drum" 
(what  a  name  that!)  one  of  the  masterpieces  of 
vagrant  literature.  Even  as  it  is,  trimmed  to  the 
bark,  that  sagacious  hobo  bespeaks  our  interest  and 
admiration  beyond  any  character  in  the  book.  We 
part  company  with  him  much  against  our  will  and 
far  too  soon  for  the  good  of  Mr.  Davies'  chronicle 
which,  with  Brum,  was  just  offering  that  verisimili- 
tude that  touches  both  life  and  art.  But  let  us  be 
thankful  for  so  much  of  him  as  we  have — had  he 
been  "done"  with  conscious  literary  intent  he  might 
not  have  pleased  us  nearly  so  well. 


324      AT  THE   SIGN   OF  THE  YAN 

Brum's  methods  of  begging,  of  panhandling  (Mr. 
Davies  does  not  seem  to  know  the  word) ,  of  work- 
ing different  towns,  of  beating  his  way,  of  holding 
down  "soft"  country  jails  in  winter  time  and  choos- 
ing easeful  occupation  or  absolute  idleness  in  sum- 
mer, are  all  out  of  the  ordinary  and  denote  a  real 
creation.  Brum  is  no  American  Weary  Wraggles 
taken  from  the  comic  supplements,  but  a  shrewd 
English  beggar  done  from  the  life,  whose  only  de- 
fect, as  already  pointed  out,  is  that  the  author  has 
euphemized  his  dialect  out  of  its  natural  tang  and 
vigor.  The  account  of  how  both  beat  their  way  to 
the  hop  country  in  Western  New  York  is  as  inter- 
esting as  anything  in  the  book  and  offers  a  good 
specimen  of  the  author's  quietly  effective  style. 

We  jumped  the  bumpers,  the  engine  whistled 
twice,  toot!  toot,  and  we  felt  ourselves  slowly  mov- 
ing out  of  the  yards.  Brum  was  on  one  car  and  I 
was  on  the  next  facing  him.  Never  shall  I  forget 
the  horror  of  that  ride.  He  had  taken  fast  hold 
on  the  handle  of  his  car,  and  I  had  done  likewise 
with  mine.  We  had  been  riding  some  fifteen  min- 
utes and  the  train  was  going  at  full  speed  when,  to 
my  horror,  I  saw  Brum  lurch  forward  and  then  pull 
himself  straight  and  erect.  Several  times  he  did 
this,  and  I  shouted  to  him.  It  was  no  use,  for  the 
man  was  drunk  and  fighting  against  the  overpower- 
ing effects,  and  it  was  a  mystery  to  me  how  he  kept 
his  hold.  At  last  he  became  motionless  for  so  long 
that  I  knew  the  next  time  he  lurched  forward  his 


A   SUPER-TRAMP  325 

weight  of  body  must  break  his  hold,  and  he  would 
fall  under  the  wheels  and  be  cut  to  pieces.  I  worked 
myself  carefully  toward  him  and  woke  him.  Al- 
though I  had  great  difficulty  in  waking  him,  he 
swore  that  he  was  not  asleep.  I  had  scarcely  done 
this  when  a  lantern  was  shown  from  the  top  of  the 
car  and  a  brakeman's  voice  hailed  us.  "Hello, 
where  are  you  two  going?"  "To  the  hop  fields,"  I 
answered.  "Well,"  he  sneered,  "I  guess  you  won't 
get  to  them  on  this  train,  so  jump  off,  at  once. 
Jump!  d'ye  hear?"  he  cried,  using  a  great  oath,  as 
he  saw  that  we  were  little  inclined  to  obey.  Brum 
was  now  wide  awake.  "If  you  don't  jump  at  once  I" 
shouted  this  irate  brakeman,  "you  will  be  thrown 
off."  "To  jump,"  said  Brum  quietly,  "will  be  sure 
death,  and  to  be  thrown  off  will  mean  no  more." 
"Wait  until  I  come  back,"  cried  the  brakeman,  "and 
we  will  see  whether  you  ride  this  train  or  not." 

"Now,"  said  Brum,  "when  he  returns  we  must  be 
on  top  of  the  car,  for  he  will  probably  bring  with 
him  a  coupling  pin  to  strike  us  off  the  bumpers." 
We  quickly  clambered  on  top,  and  in  a  few  minutes 
could  see  a  light  approaching  us,  moving  along  the 
top  of  the  cars.  We  were  now  lying  flat,  so  that 
he  might  not  see  us  until  he  stood  on  the  same  car. 
He  was  very  near  to  us  when  we  sprang  to  our  feet 
and  unexpectedly  gripped  him,  one  on  each  side,  and 
before  he  could  recover  from  his  first  astonishment. 
In  all  my  life  I  have  never  seen  so  much  fear  on  a 
human  face.  He  must  have  seen  our  half-drunken 
condition,  and  at  once  gave  up  all  hopes  of  mercy 
from  such  men,  for  he  stood  helpless,  not  knowing 
what  to  do.  *  *  *  "Now,"  said  Brum  to  him, 
"what  is  it  to  be?  Shall  we  ride  this  train  without 


326      AT  THE   SIGN   OF   THE   VAN 

interference,  or  shall  we  have  a  wrestling  bout  up 
here,  when  the  first  fall  must  be  our  last?  Speak!" 
.  .  .  "Boys,"  said  he,  affecting  a  short  laugh,  "you 
have  the  drop  on  me;  you  can  ride."  We  watched 
him  making  his  way  back  to  the  caboose. 

Again  I  say,  what  a  pity  that  Mr.  Davies  did  not 
suffer  Brum  to  speak  in  his  true  dialect!  That  he 
could  have  done  so  who  can  doubt  after  this  authen- 
tic utterance  from  a  hater  of  the  Lords  and  a  fellow 
lodger  with  the  author  in  a  London  doss-house: 
"Smother  them  lazy  rotters  in  the  hupper  'ouse,  the 
bleeding  liars!"  .  .  . 

However,  it  must  in  fairness  be  allowed  that  the 
restraint  of  this  book  is  its  peculiar  virtue.  Given 
the  same  story  to  tell,  how  an  American  writer, — 
almost  any  one  of  the  magazine  squad, — would  have 
overloaded  it  with  strenuous  writing  and  all  manner 
of  exaggeration.  Fortunately  for  our  super-tramp, 
he  has  no  literary  bag-of-tricks  to  show  us,  but  spins 
his  yarn,  plain  or  moving,  with  an  extraordinary 
quietude;  now  and  then  casting  a  patient  eye  upon 
us  to  assure  himself  that  we  are  listening.  In  this 
way  he  relates  the  fearful  accident  which  drew  him 
from  tramping  to  literature  (unexpectedly,  Mr. 
Shaw  comments,  as  it  happened  in  real  life) — an 
accident  which  thrills  the  reader  with  pity,  yet  he 
can  but  think  has  led  to  the  increase  of  the  world's 
stock  of  delight. 

The  same  restraint — or  shall  we  not  say  art? — 


A   SUPER-TRAMP  327 

is  noticeable  in  the  story  of  the  strange  ship's  cattle- 
man, small,  smooth-faced,  soft-voiced,  cigarette- 
smoking  and  profane,  whom  an  accident  revealed  to 
be  a  woman  on  the  voyage  to  England^  Perhaps 
there  is  nothing  finer  in  the  book  than  his  (or  her) 
unsuspecting  bunkie's  confession  of  the  attraction 
which  he  felt  so  strongly  without  understanding  it: 

"In  all  my  experience  this  was  the  first  time  I  was 
not  eager  to  sight  land  and  fill  myself  with  English 
ale."  .  .  . 

Of  this  book  Mr.  Shaw  says  that  he  read  it 
through  from  beginning  to  end,  and  would  have 
read  more  of  it  had  there  been  more  to  read.  That 
also  was  my  experience,  and  will,  I  think,  be  the 
experience  of  most  people  who  are  capable  of  appre- 
ciating a  book  of  uncommon  truth  to  life.  That  the 
life  was  a  tramp's  life,  told  of  with  the  frankest 
self-revelation — begging,  stealing,  loafing  and  drink- 
ing— does  not  lessen  the  value  of  Mr.  Davies'  work, 
and  is  indeed  its  chief  title  to  consideration  as  a  hu- 
man document. 


XIII 

LITERARY    FOLK 

TURNING  over  a  catalogue  illustrated  with 
portraits  of  authors,  the  other  day,  I  was 
painfully  struck  with  the  ordinariness  of 
the  lot,  in  point  of  good  looks.  This  was  especially 
true  of  the  women  authors,  and  the  sad  conclusion 
was  forced  upon  me  that  the  jealous  Muses  impart 
the  smallest  possible  share  of  their  own  immortal 
beauty  to  the  earthly  daughters  of  the  lyre.  After 
all,  there  never  was  or  will  be  a  poem  equal  to  a 
really  pretty  woman.  I  have  known  literary  men 
who  would  grow  languid  even  upon  the  subject  of 
their  own  works,  while  the  perennial  theme  of  the 
woman  made  for  love  never  failed  to  kindle  in  them 
fresh  eloquence  and  inspiration. 

Beauty  is  a  woman's  right,  and  we  say  what  we 
do  not  believe  when  we  talk  of  the  superior  charms 
of  the  female  intelligence.  Along  in  middle  life  it 
doubtless  occurs  for  the  first  time  to  many  men  that 
women  have  minds  as  well  as  bodies,  but  during  the 
period  when  Nature  is  most  exigent,  the  matter  gives 
them  no  concern. 

328 


LITERARY    FOLK  329 

I  believe  no  woman  ever  regretted  that  she  was 
loved  for  her  beautiful  body  rather  than  for  her 
gifted  mind.  Of  course,  even  a  divinely  pretty 
woman  has  no  license  to  be  a  fool — and  few  are  the 
men  who  will  call  her  such.  In  fact,  for  women  up 
to  the  fortieth  year,  beauty  is  an  excellent  substi- 
tute for  every  kind  of  mental  accomplishment. 

I  once  knew  a  woman  who  was  clever  enough  to 
dispense  with  good  looks,  if  ever  a  woman  was. 
Yet  she  lamented  her  face  constantly, — which  in- 
deed might  have  been  a  better  one, — and  often  ob- 
truded upon  my  notice  her  one  claim  to  considera- 
tion in  a  physical  way — a  delicate  and  charming 
foot.  Ah,  touching  vanity  of  women  1  This  lady 
often  remarked,  with  a  conviction  based  upon  her 
own  feeling  of  deprivation,  that  George  Eliot  would 
have  gladly  bartered  her  literary  genius  for  a  good 
face.  No  doubt  she  would,  at  least  before  her 
grand  climacteric,  which  she  had  surely  passed  be- 
fore she  married  her  third  husband.  Her  French 
contemporary,  George  Sand,  had  a  few  more  men 
as  well  as  greater  physical  charm  and  a  less  facti- 
tious talent. 

No :  literary  genius  never  consoled  a  woman  for 
an  ugly  face,  for  to  love  and  be  loved  is  every 
woman's  natural  desire.  George  Eliot  shows  her 
spite  in  her  own  works  and  in  true  womanly  fashion 
resents  Stepdame  Nature's  unkindness  to  herself  by 
giving  a  bad  end  to  every  character  whom  she  has 


330      AT  THE   SIGN   OF  THE  VAN 

endowed  with  personal  beauty.  She  hurries  Maggie 
Tulliver  and  Tito  Melema  to  their  doom,  not  like  a 
literary  artist,  but  like  an  executioner.  Be  sure  of 
this,  ladies:  "Romola"  and  "The  Mill  on  the 
Floss"  would  each  have  had  a  different  ending  if 
the  mother  of  Mary  Ann  Evans  had  not  too  seri- 
ously considered  a  horse's  face  at  a  certain  critical 
time.  .  .  . 

The  men  in  my  catalogue  can  boast  little  advan- 
tage over  the  women,  though  their  case  is  not  so  sad, 
since  beauty  is  not  expected  of  them.  Yet  a  con- 
templation of  this  gallery  of  portraits  does  not  in- 
duce cheerfulness.  Such  ravaged  heads,  such  la- 
mentable faces !  "Picture  me  young  and  handsome 
as  I  once  was,'*  said  Heine,  "not  like  an  emaciated 
Christ  of  Morales."  I  wish  some  of  these  authors 
would  practise  upon  us  a  like  agreeable  deception. 

It  sometimes  occurs  that  you  form  a  favorable 
idea  of  an  author's  personality  from  his  literary 
style.  You  go  on  happy  in  your  illusion  until  one 
day  a  photograph  in  the  literary  press  shocks 
you  into  a  new  attitude,  generally  of  hostil- 
ity and  aversion.  A  good  many  men,  as  well  as 
most  women,  will  not  read  an  author  if  they  dislike 
his  personality.  Think  of  Byron's  head  and  face 
which  stamped  him  as  a  god,  and  remember  how  the 
world,  like  a  woman,  passionately  lamented  him. 
Call  up  now  the  weirdly  contorted  Cockney  phiz  of 


LITERARY    FOLK  331 

Kipling,  and  wonder  no  more  that  he  is  the  best 
hated  and  most  liberally  cursed  poet  of  our  time. 

As  a  rule,  the  tradition  of  personal  beauty  does 
not  obtain  in  the  genus  poetarum.  Nature  dislikes 
to  double  her  gifts.  For  one  Byron  or  Goethe  she 
makes  many  a  blear-eyed  Horace,  many  a  deformed 
Scarron  or  grinning  Voltaire.  Of  all  the  fictions  of 
the  poets  the  most  flattering  to  themselves  is  that  of 
the  beautiful  Apollo.  Perhaps  it  was  not  so  much 
a  fiction  before  the  incident  of  the  flaying  of  Mar- 
syas — after  that  the  god  seems  to  have  visited  his 
disfavor  upon  all  his  mortal  competitors. 

Not  all,  I  would  say,  for  now  and  then  he  makes 
an  exception,  and  surely  he  has  done  so  in  the  case 
of  Edwin  Markham.  Here  is  a  poet  who  looks  the 
part — the  deep  eye  that  denotes  prophetic  power, 
the  Jovian  head,  the  godlike  port,  all  bear  the  man- 
ifest seal  of  that  character  which  was  recognized  as 
divine  by  the  wise  ancients  until  the  ignoble  race  of 
publishers  arose  to  degrade  it. 

I  believe  Edwin  Markham  to  be  a  true  poet — the 
highest  voice  in  American  letters  to-day.  I  also 
regard  him  as  a  brave  man,  since  he  dares  to  live 
his  poetry  and  by  it — a  feat  not  less  difficult  than  to 
have  written  "The  Man  with  the  Hoe."  Perhaps  it 
is  unfortunate  that  Mr.  Markham  should  be  so  gen- 
erally hailed  as  the  laureate  of  the  new  socialism — 
I  do  not  find  it  easy  to  imagine  Apollo  tuning  his 
lyre  to  the  praises  of  the  trade  unions.  There  are 


332       AT  THE   SIGN   OF   THE   VAN 

truer,  finer  things  in  his  poetry  than  the  philippics 
which  he  hurls  at  the  frowning  brow  of  Capital. 
His  minor  strains — tender  little  songs  of  his  heart 
and  home — to  my  mind  better  attest  his  poetical  in- 
spiration. 

From  this  you  are  not  to  infer  that  I  regard  the 
Poet's  clamant  humanitarianism  as  a  pose,  or  in 
any  degree  insincere.  On  the  contrary,  I  have  re- 
ceived from  no  other  man  so  strong  an  impression 
of  moral  cleanliness  and  intellectual  integrity. 
Would  I  had  known  him  when  he  was  younger — 
would  I  might  see  the  poetical  sins  of  his  youth! 
This  Poet  was  not  always  a  priest.  There  must 
have  been  terrible  storms  of  passion  in  that  strong 
soul  ere  he  came  to  us,  chastened  and  exalted  by  the 
trial  of  years.  But  Edwin  Markham,  with  rare  dis- 
cretion for  a  poet,  will  not  suffer  us  to  touch  upon 

that  page. 

***** 

I  have  a  heart  full  of  sympathy  for  the  Literary 
Woman — for  which  I  well  know  I  shall  not  receive 
her  gratitude.  She  is  so  numerous  and  prolific 
(alas!  chiefly  of  books),  so  brilliant  and  enviable, 
so  panegyrized  and  paragraphed,  in  short,  so  emi- 
nently able  to  take  care  of  herself,  that  my  concern 
for  her  must  needs  appear  impertinent. 

Well,  I  shall  go  on  pitying  her,  in  spite  of  her 
resentment — pitying  her  for  the  brave  fight  and  the 
futile  effort  and  the  success  that  is  little  worth; 


LITERARY    FOLK  333 

often,  too,  for  the  calm  joys  of  maternity  and  do- 
mestic peace  which  a  factitious  ambition  has  shut 
out  of  her  woman's  life. 

This  latter  is,  I  suspect,  a  sore  point  with  Milady 
Literary — if  she  were  ever  to  lose  her  angelic  tem- 
per, it  would  be  on  account  of  this.  In  such  a  mo- 
ment, how  intense  her  loathing  of  bestial,  philopro- 
genitive Man,  grossly  seeking  to  divert  her  from 
the  passionless  joys  of  literature !  Curiously  it 
chances  that  the  desire  of  so  many  women  to  write 
is  only  another  form  of  the  maternal  instinct.  Tra- 
vail the  woman  must — her  woman's  flesh  requires 
these  natural  pains — but  the  pangs  of  literary  con- 
ception are  to  many  of  the  sex  a  sufficient  and  agree- 
able substitute.  I  know  a  literary  woman  who  has 
had  both  experiences,  and  her  now  exclusive  devo- 
tion to  her  Art  (the  capital  is  hers)  tells  the  rest 
of  the  story. 

Women  enjoy  writing  for  its  own  sake  more  than 
men  do. 

It  was  my  pleasant  fortune  to  meet  a  lady  not 
long  ago  who  came  to  ask  my  poor  counsel  with  a 
view  to  having  her  MSS.  published.  She  is  not 
famous  and  yet  not  absolutely  without  reputation. 
I  believe  she  has  quite  as  much  talent  as  the  run  of 
literary  women.  I  should  think  her  capable  of 
writing  a  book  that  would  make  a  good  mediocre 
success — the  sort  of  thing  at  which  women  always 
beat  men.  But  the  point  I  want  to  make  about  this 


334      AT  THE   SIGN   OF   THE   VAN 

person  (and  I  think  it  applies  generally  to  the  scrib- 
entes  sorores)  refers  to  her  astonishing  looseness  of 
faculty.  In  this  I  read  alike  the  success  and  the 
failure  of  women  in  literature. 

To  most  literary  men  the  act  of  mental  composi- 
tion is  painful;  to  some  great  writers  it  has  been 
superlatively  so.  To  most  writing  women  I  believe 
it  is  quite  the  reverse — nay,  unconscionably  agree- 
able and  easy.  Hence  the  close  analogy  between  a 
writing  woman's  talk  and  her  literary  product; 
hence  also  the  latter's  facile  agreeableness.  Milady 
of  the  MSS.  is  here  an  excellent  witness.  To  say 
nothing  of  her  prose,  which  she  throws  off  at  will 
and  in  fearsome  quantity,  she  exudes  sonnets  at 
every  pore.  I  examined  a  bulky  typewritten  vol- 
ume of  these,  some  five  hundred  in  number.  There 
was  no  denying  a  certain  poetic  faculty  and  a  dread- 
ful poetic  facility.  The  lady  rhymed  well  and 
scanned  with  accuracy.  Her  mind  was  well  fur- 
nished with  the  usual  stock  paraphernalia  of  the 
versifier.  Everything  was  there  you  had  a  right  to 
expect,  so  far  as  prosody  goes  and  mere  verbal  me- 
chanics; but  of  the  heaven-born  surprise  and  thrill 
and  uplift  of  true  poetry,  not  a  pulse,  not  a  breath, 
not  a  flutter ! 

And  the  burden  of  all  this  rhymed  futility  was 
love,  super-passionate  love,  for  the  lady  is  not  an 
ingenue  (sic),  and  so,  naturally  revolting  from  the 
realism  of  the  senses  and  the  enforced  contact  of 


LITERARY    FOLK  335 

the  conjugal  relation,  her  passion  (i.  e.,  the  pas- 
sion of  her  verse)  is  frozen,  though  splendid — a 
cold,  cold  thing,  fit  for  the  nebulae  or  the  interstellar 
spaces. 

The  lady  is  fair,  fat  and  perilously  near  forty. 
Her  well-nourished  person  suggests  images  strongly 
at  variance  with  the  anaemic  ardors  of  her  verse. 

"Surely  you  do  not  mean  all  this?"  I  hazarded. 

She  smirked  and  replied,  "But  why  not?  It  is 
poetry!" 

I  felt  there  was  nothing  to  be  said,  and,  like 
Dante's  lovers,  we  read  no  more  that  day.  .  .  . 

At  another  time  I  asked  Milady  of  the  Sonnets 
if  it  was  not  a  terribly  arduous  task  to  have  com- 
posed all  this  poetry.  She  smiled  with  a  self-com- 
placent disdain  that  might  have  abashed  Melpomene 
herself. 

"Not  at  all — I  simply  could  not  help  it.  To  write 
poetry  has  been  the  one  great  joy  of  my  life  since — 

since "  She  hesitated  and  did  not  finish  the 

sentence.  There  was  a  moment's  pause  while  Mi- 
lady strove  with  her  memories. 

Resuming  with  an  effort,  she  added:  "Far  from 
being  a  painful  task,  it  has  been  a  pleasure  and  a 
recreation.  I  have  only  to  take  up  my  pen,  when 
it  simply  flows  so  that  I  can  hardly  write  down  the 
lines  as  fast  as  they  come.  And  so  perfect  that  I 
seldom  change  a  word !" 

I  hope  I  am  not  without  feeling  for  the  pathos  of 


336      AT  THE   SIGN   OF  THE   VAN 

this  confession  of  the  fruitful,  though  ineffective, 
poetess.  She  had  wasted  years  that  might  have 
been  more  happily  and  usefully  employed.  She  had 
(as  I  learned  afterward)  separated  from  her  hus- 
band, whose  chief  offence  was  that  he  had  failed  to 
do  becoming  honor  to  her  literary  genius.  Her  vain 
hope  had  been  buoyed  up  at  long  intervals  by  a 
perfunctory  word  of  praise  from  some  literary  char- 
acter upon  whom  she  had  forced  her  manuscripts. 
No  publisher  would  bring  out  her  work  unless  he 
were  guaranteed  against  loss.  This  guaranty  she 
was  unable  to  furnish,  and  so  the  years  of  deferred 
hope  and  heartache  and  cankering  envy  that  will 
ere  long  leave  her  a  blighted,  disappointed,  miser- 
able old  woman. 

Is  it  not  sad,  Mesdames?  .  .  . 

Finally,  it  must  be  granted  that  the  public  in 
general  hates  poetry  whether  by  men  or  women, 
and  the  reason  is  patent  enough.  Poetry  is  a  more 
artificial  medium  of  expression  than  prose,  and  with 
the  adjuncts  of  rhyme,  etc.,  mediocrity  more  easily 
disguises  itself  therein.  To  write  prose  is  to  come 
out  in  the  open;  to  write  poetry  is  to  take  up  an 
ambush :  the  public  instinctively  feels  this  and  gives 
preference  to  the  honester  medium.  The  practice  of 
poetry  lends  itself  therefore  to  inferior  literary  tal- 
ent of  the  imitative  order, — in  a  word,  to  the  peculiar 
talents  of  women;  especially  as  verse  is  consecrated 
to  the  sentiment  of  love  with  which  the  sex  is  almost 


LITERARY    FOLK  337 

exclusively  concerned.  This  facile  art  has  its  uses 
and  delights,  I  do  not  deny.  It  diversifies  agreeably 
the  pages  of  the  magazines  and  is  a  great  conven- 
ience in  the  "make-up,"  as  printers  say — that  is,  in 
the  filling  of  odd  corners.  It  is  mere  repetition  and 
iteration,  of  course,  both  of  words  and  ideas,  but 
even  this  is  not  without  value  in  a  time  when  the 
taste  for  original  poetry  is  declining  or  almost  ex- 
tinct. And  surely  it  furthers  the  literary  spirit  in 
our  most  remote  outposts  of  culture  to  be  able  to 
boast  of  a  "lady  poet"  who  has  had  a  poem  in  the 
magazines. 

Few  men  of  strong  literary  talent  give  themselves 
wholly  to  writing  verse  nowadays;  mainly  because 
the  public  hates  it,  with  good  reason,  as  I  have 
shown.  And  so  the  ars  poetica,  or  what  there  re- 
mains of  it,  is  by  general  consent  abandoned  to  the 
weaker  sex.  This  is  become  so  much  the  rule  that 
one  is  apt  to  associate  that  rarity — a  man  poet — 
with  marked  feminine  attributes;  and  thereanent 
hangs  many  a  scandal. 

There,  ladies ! — mayhap  I  have  prosed  too  much, 
but  my  intent  was  kind.  And  when  all  is  said,  I 
would  debar  you  from  nothing  that  puts  you  in  a 
pretty  conceit  with  your  charming  selves:  which  is, 
it  must  be  allowed,  the  chief  merit  of  your  poetry. 


XIV 

PHILADELPHOS 

DR.  GEORGE  M.  GOULD  is  an  eccentric 
person  living  in  Philadelphia,  who  has 
made  a  tuppenny  bid  for  fame  by  his 
theory  of  the  influence  of  abnormal  vision  upon 
genius  and  character. 

Dr.  Gould  has  searched  the  entire  field  of  literary 
biography  for  subjects  to  whom  he  might  apply  his 
theory,  with  results  that  have  at  least  abundantly 
satisfied  himself.  A  cockeyed  poet  rejoices  the 
Doctor  beyond  measure,  and  a  philosopher  with  a 
squint  or  a  "bum  lamp"  (to  use  a  technical  expres- 
sion), or  a  color-blind  essayist,  almost  equally  de- 
lights him.  There  is,  of  course,  nothing  abnormal 
in  the  Doctor's  passion  for  abnormality  in  others. 

Dr.  Gould  has  lately  emitted  a  book  concerning 
Lafcadio  Hearn,  in  which  he  exploits  his  theory  with 
a  flourish,  on  account  of  certain  disabilities  of  that 
man  of  genius.  Incidentally  the  Doctor  makes  a 
few  motions  to  attract  notice  to  himself. 

The  fact  of  Hearn's  unique  literary  genius  has 
no  real  interest  for  Gould,  except  as  taken  in  con- 

338 


PHILADELPHOS  339 

junction  with  his  myopia.  This  exhibits  the  precise 
mental  calibre  of  our  theorist,  for  Hearn's  bad 
sight  was  mainly  the  result  of  an  accident,  whilst 
his  literary  genius  was,  of  course,  innate.  No  sane 
mind  would  admit  that  there  was  any  relation  be- 
tween the  two,  but  the  extraordinary  Gould  would 
have  us  believe  that  Hearn's  defective  sight  con- 
ditioned both  his  mind  and  his  morals!  And  to 
bolster  up  his  perverse  theory,  he  does  not  scruple 
to  revive  old  hideous  accusations  affecting  the  mem- 
ory of  the  dead  artist. 

What  makes  Gould's  conduct  especially  atrocious 
is  the  fact  that  Hearn  at  one  time  treated  him  as  a 
friend  and  wrote  to  him  a  series  of  remarkable 
letters.  This  was  during  the  earlier  part  of  his 
career,  before  he  had  thoroughly  found  himself. 
He  wrote  no  letters  to  Gould  from  Japan — perhaps 
that  is  why  Gould  accuses  him  of  disloyalty  to  his 
friendships.  Something  very  like  hatred  breathes  in 
Dr.  Gould's  conclusion  that  Hearn  could  not  be  a 
creative  writer,  "because  he  felt  himself  excluded 
from  so  many  of  the  inspiring  experiences  of  life — 
the  finer  love  of  woman,  the  deeper  phases  of  friend- 
ship, and  in  the  physical  world  the  manifold  beauties 
of  form — by  his  deformity  and  blindness." 

Gould  is  absurd.  Lafcadio  Hearn  fulfilled  his 
artistic  endowment  with  rare  completeness  and  suc- 
cess, all  things  considered.  He  got  the  thing  writ- 
ten that  bothered  him,  and  enough  of  it  to  make  a 


340       AT  THE   SIGN   OF  THE   VAN 

fine  literary  monument.  His  accidental  physical  de- 
fects in  no  way  conditioned  his  genius,  though  I 
believe  they  intensified  it.  Readers  of  Hearn  do  not 
need  to  be  reminded  that  his  observation  of  things  in 
the  physical  world  was  as  close  and  faithful  as  his 
perception  of  things  spiritual  was  illuminating.  If 
we  knew  nothing  of  the  personal  history  of  the  man, 
we  should  certainly  not  derive  from  his  writings  that 
he  had  but  one  eye  and  that  only  half  good,  and 
that  he  was  little  more  than  a  dwarf  in  stature. 
Lacking  this  knowledge  of  the  physical  man,  even 
Dr.  Gould  would  not  know  how  to  go  to  work  on 
him  with  his  famous  theory. 

In  point  of  fact,  Hearn's  work  is  full  of  life  and 
light  and  color — few  men  with  two  good  eyes  have 
seen  half  so  much.  He  was  most  exquisitely  sensi- 
tive to  the  slightest  gradations  of  light  and  shade,  to 
the  beauty  of  flowers,  of  the  landscape,  of  the  sky. 
His  natural  descriptions  are  peculiarly  his  own,  real- 
ized with  the  pains  his  disability  obliged  him  to 
take.  Indeed  some  of  his  pictures  are,  if  anything, 
overcharged  with  color — he  has  confessed  that  his 
chief  labor  was  to  "tone  things  down."  He  de- 
lighted in  color  and  by  some  principle  of  compensa- 
tion got  all  he  wanted  of  it.  "Blue  is  the  World- 
Soul,"  was  not  said  by  a  joyless  myopic. 

I  fancy  Dr.  Gould's  mental  vision  has  a  bad  case 
of  strabismus,  or,  at  least,  is  painfully  short-sighted. 
Like  other  specialists  of  the  Bedlam  order,  he  seems 


PHILADELPHOS  341 

himself  infected  with  the  malady  which  it  is  his 
business  to  diagnose.  His  book  on  Hearn  does 
honor  neither  to  his  head  nor  his  heart,  and  it  is  a 
far  worse  abuse  of  friendship  than  any  ever  brought 
home  to  the  dead  writer. 

Gould  denies  that  Hearn  was  in  any  sense  a  great 
man;  and  yet  he  fastens  upon  him,  barnacle  fashion. 
If  he  was  not  great,  why  write  a  book  about  him, 
and  why  especially  lug  in  the  fact — if  fact  it  be — 
that  he  had  once  foolishly  accepted  the  "hospitality" 
of  George  M.  Gould? 

In  all  my  reading  I  have  never  met  with  an  ex- 
ample of  baseness,  treachery,  utter  lack  of  the  senti- 
ment of  honor, — the  one  thing  that  keeps  us  above 
the  beast, — comparable  to  this  display  of  the  putrid 
sore  which  Gould  carries  about  in  lieu  of  a  mind. 
He  is  speaking  of  Lafcadio  Hearn,  the  poet  and 
man  of  true  genius: 

"They  who  blame  him  too  sharply  for  his  dis- 
loyalty and  ingratitude  to  old  friends  do  not  under- 
stand him  psychologically.  There  was  nothing  be- 
hind the  physical  and  neurologic  machine  to  be  loyal 
or  disloyal.  He  had  no  mind,  or  character,  to  be 
possessed  of  loyalty  or  disloyalty." 

The  absurdity  of  Gould  is  only  surpassed  by  his 
malice.  He  attacks  the  literary  reputation  of  Hearn, 
and  as  a  sample  of  his  fitness  for  such  an  enterprise 
we  have  this: 

"One  does  not  ask  originality  or  even  great  con- 


342       AT  THE   SIGN   OF   THE   VAN 

sistency  of  an  echo,  and,  of  all  men  that  have  ever 
lived,  Hearn,  mentally  and  spiritually,  was  most  per- 
fectly an  echo.  .  .  .  He  created  or  invented  noth- 
ing; his  stories  were  always  told  him  by  others." 

O  idiocy,  thy  name  is  Gould,  and  thou  hast  a 
cock-eyed  theory  of  literary  origins!  Why,  this 
charge  which  you  bring  against  Hearn  is  true  also  of 
Shakespeare,  who  never  invented  a  story — true  also 
of  Maupassant,  the  greatest  conteur  of  all  time. 
One  need  not  invent,  0  ass  ineffable ! — the  world  is 
full  of  stories  or  the  raw  material  of  art;  it  is  for 
the  genius  like  Maupassant  or  Hearn  to  turn  them 
into  the  finished  product. 

However,  I  will  not  deny  that  the  application  of 
the  Ocular  Theory  may  have  been  made  in  good 
faith — Gould  was  committed  to  that  foolishness 
even  before  Lafcadio  Hearn  outgrew  and  forgot 
him.  .  .  . 

It  was  Baudelaire  who  characterized  Griswold's 
posthumous  attack  on  Poe  as  an  "immortal  infamy." 
M.  De  Smet,  likewise  a  French  critic,  applies  this 
damnatory  phrase  to  the  Gould  lampoon  on  Laf- 
cadio Hearn.  He  calls  it  bizarre  et  odieux,  and 
declares  it  to  have  failed  of  its  purpose,  for  as  he 
keenly  remarks: 

"In  this  very  pamphlet,  in  spate  of  all  his  hateful 
insinuations,  his  efforts  to  ridicule  the  excessive  nerv- 
ousness, the  weaknesses,  even  the  physical  infirmities 
of  the  man,  or  to  rouse  opinion  against  the  boldness 


PHILADELPHOS  343 

of  his  thought,  Gould  is  despite  himself  dazzled  by 
the  brilliancy  of  his  intended  victim.  His  book  is 
full  of  exasperated  and  reluctant  homage  to  Hearn, 
the  more  singular  that  it  has  no  real  critical  value, 
but  which  proves  at  least  that  the  bitterest  enemies 
of  our  author  ignorantly  felt  and  perforce  acknowl- 
edged his  greatness."  M.  De  Smet  affirms  his 
conviction  that  to  every  intelligent  and  unprejudiced 
mind  Hearn  will  seem  precisely  the  opposite  of  what 
Gould  wished  to  see  in  him. 

If,  outside  the  vulgar  crowd,  there  are  readers  to 
approve  this  malignant  performance  of  Dr.  Gould, 
the  French  critic  would  ask,  where  does  America 
stand  in  the  scale  of  civilization?  It  is  certain,  he 
affirms,  that  in  Europe  Dr.  Gould's  book  would  be 
ridiculously  impossible. 

The  furore,  both  of  eulogy  and  disparagement, 
which  arose  not  long  after  the  death  of  Hearn  in 
1904,  has  scarcely  yet  died  away.  In  the  noble 
simile  of  the  Roman  poet,  we  tread  here  on  ashes 
that  are  still  burning.  The  passions  aroused  by  that 
bitter  controversy  are  still  active,  though  a  truce  has 
been  called  to  their  expression  in  the  public  press. 
The  witnesses  of  hate  and  the  witnesses  of  love  have 
both  been  heard:  turn  we  now  to  the  impartial 
arbitrament  of  those  who  neither  love  nor  hate.  For 
that,  as  in  the  case  of  every  contested  reputation,  we 
shall  have  to  await  the  deliberate  process  of  time. 


344 

But,  according  to  a  famous  dictum,  foreign  judgment 
of  a  writer  settles  the  question  as  to  posterity.  If 
this  be  so,  Lafcadio  Hearn  is  already  assured  of  his 
place  in  the  Pantheon  of  Letters.  I  have  long  since 
expressed  my  faith  that  his  place  therein  will  be  a 
high  one,  and  I  am  confirmed  in  it  by  M.  De  Smet's 
judicious  appreciation.  At  the  very  outset  of  his 
work  he  declares  that  few  writers  will  be  so  fully 
known  to  posterity,  and  he  speaks  of  Hearn  as  "a 
man  whose  singular  destiny  was  one  of  the  most 
painful  and  significant  of  our  time";  whilst  he  thus 
notes  his  artistic  achievement: 

"Lafcadio  Hearn's  literary  fame,  undisputed  in 
America,  was  in  England  established  solidly  enough 
(at  the  time  of  his  death)  for  one  to  consider  it  as 
definitely  acquired.  In  fact,  it  was  of  the  purest 
kind:  awarded  by  the  suffrage  of  an  elite,  it  had 
nothing  of  that  inferior  popularity,  entirely  of  cir- 
cumstance, which  belongs  to  Conan  Doyle.  If  one 
examines  the  character  and  the  quality  of  the  appre- 
ciations which  Hearn's  books  have  evoked,  he  will 
recognize  by  indisputable  signs  that  they  are  of  a 
species  only  elicited  by  works  of  the  first  order." 
And  he  adds:  "In  studying  the  man  we  shall  find 
that  he  was  of  those  artists  avoided  by  false  fame 
(la  reclame).  His  entrance  into  the  literary  pan- 
theon was  made  quietly  and  in  a  manner  wholly 
natural.  He  found  himself  one  fine  day  consecrated 
as  a  great,  a  very  great  writer,  without  anybody 


PHILADELPHOS  345 

being  disturbed  about  it."  .  .  .  Evidently  M.  De 
Smet  attaches  little  importance  to  the  emeute  raised 
in  this  country  by  the  question  of  Hearn's  literary 
merits,  as  well  as  that  of  his  moral  character.  This 
no  doubt  owing  to  that  peculiar  advantage  of  view- 
point which  the  foreign  observer  in  these  matters 
shares  with  posterity. 


XV 

A     POET    OF    THE    REVOLUTION 

SOME  months  ago  there  came  to  me  from  a 
London  publisher  a  little  book  of  a  hundred- 
odd  pages,  bound  in  paper  covers,  that  has 
troubled  me  far  more  than  anything  in  prose  or 
verse  which  I  have  read  this  many  a  day.  I  say 
"troubled"  advisedly,  for  that  is  the  warrant,  the 
seal  and  the  sign  of  a  true  message.  And  the  books 
that  so  affect  us  even  unto  pain,  that  trouble  us 
deeply,  making  a  spiritual  or  emotional  impress  be- 
yond the  ordinary,  compelling  us  to  heed  them  as  a 
living  insistent  voice,  are  in  a  small  class  by  them- 
selves. Such  books  are  always  of  a  plangent  per- 
sonal note  and  usually  have  to  do  with  elements  of 
a  personal  pathos  and  tragedy, — the  inextinguish- 
able cry  of  some  Weak  One  but  glorious,  who  has 
gone  down  fighting  to  defeat  and  death.  But  these 
untoward  accidents  named  death  and  defeat  in  the 
world's  reckoning  are  not,  in  the  rare  instances 
noted,  the  true  and  ultimate  end  of  the  matter.  Was 
it  not  the  Greatest  of  the  Weak  Ones  who  said  that 

346 


A  POET  OF  THE  REVOLUTION      347 

no  man  should  ever  again  be  the  same  after  hearing 
His  name?  .  .  . 

This  little  book,  "Songs  of  the  Army  of  the 
Night,"  has  indeed  moved  me  so  much  that  I  am 
reluctant  to  write  of  it.  Too  sad  is  it,  too  lament- 
able in  its  hopelessness,  surcharged  with  unavailing 
effort  and  suffering  and  sorrow,  like  the  untimely 
ended  life  of  the  Poet  himself.  In  truth  the  book — 
the  story — is  too  terribly  real  for  literature.  It  is 
or  should  be  exempt  from  formal  canon  and  criti- 
cism. The  man  was  too  angry  to  write  always  ac- 
cording to  the  stated  rules  of  art — it  is  a  supreme 
sanction  of  his  sincerity  that  we  ourselves  make  the 
excuse  for  him.  I  scarcely  know  a  writer  to  whom 
we  so  readily  pardon  defects  of  a  formal  kind  be- 
cause of  the  redeeming  and  transfiguring  purpose 
behind  the  work.  No  praise,  I  think,  would  have 
pleased  him  half  so  much. 

Francis  Adams  had  need  to  hurry  with  his  task, 
for  he  was  to  die  at  scant  thirty-one,  and  he  had 
always  the  prescience  of  early  death,  like  a  cold  hand 
at  his  heart,  to  stifle  his  inspiration.  While  there 
was  yet  light  he  urged  brain  and  heart  to  the  highest 
pitch,  the  passion  of  the  man  consuming  him  like 
a  palpable  flame.  "This  is  what  I  pray,"  he  tells 
us, — 

This  is  what  I  pray 
In  this  horrible  day, 


348      AT  THE   SIGN   OF  THE  VAN 

In  this  terrible  night, 
I  may  still  have  light, 
Such  as  I  have  had, 
That  I  go  not  mad. 


This  is  what  I  seek — 
I  may  keep  me  meek 
Till  mine  eyes  behold, 
Till  my  lips  have  told 
'All  this  Hellish  Crime — 
Then  it's  sleeping  time! 

Born  and  bred  in  the  dominant  class  (as  he  tells 
us),  liberally  educated,  master  of  the  culture  of 
Greece  and  Rome,  with  the  scholar's  instinctive  revolt 
from  the  vulgar,  the  violent  and  the  terrible,  Francis 
Adams  chose  to  make  himself  the  Poet  and  Prophet 
of  the  disinherited.  It  was  a  strange  election,  this 
modest,  cultured,  refined  young  man  turning  from 
Greek  odes  and  Latin  quantities  to  preach  the  de- 
spised cause  of  the  poor  and  to  become  the  Tyrtaeus 
of  the  English  proletariat.  About  the  time  that  he 
was  thus  preparing  to  throw  his  life  away,  another 
young  man  with  a  very  different  order  of  ideals  was 
getting  his  first  taste  of  the  noisiest,  most  fiercely 
contested  and  most  remarkable  literary  fame  of  our 
generation.  Could  there  be  a  more  striking  and 
ironically  suggestive  contrast  than  that  which  the 


A  POET  OF  THE  REVOLUTION      349 

success  of  Rudyard  Kipling  offers  to  the  failure  of 
Francis  Adams?  A  contrast  the  force  of  which  is 
not  broken  by  the  disparity  of  literary  genius  be- 
tween these  two  writers.  For  Adams,  it  must  be 
kept  in  mind,  died  at  thirty,  just  as  he  was  finding 
himself  after  many  passionate  and  too  hasty  tenta- 
tives.  To  judge  him  by  his  best,  one  would  be 
tempted  to  set  high  the  bound  of  his  possible  achieve- 
ment. I  believe  that  the  difference  between  him 
and  Kipling  was  rather  ethical  than  literary,  in  the 
last  analysis. 

For  example :  Everybody  knows  what  Kipling  has 
done  for  Tommy  Atkins,  and  reflective  persons 
shrewdly  estimate  how  much  Tommy  Atkins  has  in 
turn  done  for  Kipling.  Nobody  will  dispute  that 
Kipling's  clever  and  calculated  glorification  of  the 
British  soldier  has  been  a  large  element — if  not  the 
largest — in  his  great  popularity  and  success.  Well, 
Adams  was  nearer  to  Tommy  Atkins  by  birth  and 
associations  than  Kipling  himself.  He  was  born  at 
Malta,  the  son  of  a  British  army  surgeon  whose 
regiment  was  then  stationed  there.  With  what  dif- 
ferent eyes  he  looked  on  Tommy  Atkins,  and  the 
work  cut  out  for  that  "absent-minded  beggar,"  may 
be  guessed  from  one  of  the  most  spirited  of  his 
poems,  "England  in  Egypt,"  which  I  dare  pronounce 
to  be  not  unworthy  of  the  hand  that  gave  us  "Danny 
Deever."  Here  is  a  bit  of  this  noble  poem: 


350      AT  THE   SIGN   OF   THE   VAN 

And  the  silent  Arabs  crowded,   half-defiant,  half- 
dismayed, 
And  the  jaunty  fifers  fifing  flung  their  challenge  to 

the  breeze, 
And  the  drummers  kneed  their  drums  up  as  the 

reckless  drumsticks  played, 
And  the  Tommies  all  came  trooping,   tripping, 

slouching  at  their,  ease. 
Ah  Christ,  the  love  I  bore  them  for  their  brave 

hearts  and  strong  hands — 
Ah,  Christ,  the  hate  that  smote  me  for  their  stupid 

dull  conceits — 
I  know  not  which  was  greater,  as  I  watched  their 

conquering  bands 

In  the  dusty  jaded  sunlight  of  the  sullen  Cairo 
streets. 


And  my  dream  of  love  and  hate 

Surged,  and  broke,  and  gathered  there, 
As  I  heard  the  fifes  and  drums, 
As  I  heard  the  fifes  and  drums, 
The  fifes  and  drums  of  England 

Thrilling  all  the  alien  air! — 
And  "Tommy,  Tommy,  Tommy" 

I  heard  the  wild  fifes  cry, 
"Will  you  never  know  the  England 

For  which  men,  not  fools,  should  die?" 


rA  POET  OF  THE  REVOLUTION      351 

And  "Tommy,  Tommy,  Tommy" 

I  heard  the  fierce  drums  roar, 
"Will  you  always  be  a  cut-throat 

And  a  slave  forevermore?" 


Adams's  "Songs  of  the  Street,"  of  London  town, 
with  its  daunting  grandeurs  of  wealth  and  appalling 
contrasts  of  poverty,  with  the  tragedy  of  its  sub- 
merged and  hopeless  thousands, — Poems  of  the  Pit 
they  might  well  be  called, — are  to  my  mind  his  best 
work  and  that  by  which  he  deserves  to  live.  Among 
these  I  would  cite  especially  "One  Among  So  Many," 
the  finest  and  tenderest  of  these  pieces,  which  is  as 
beautiful  as  De  Quincey's  prose  idyl  of  the  London 
prostitute  and  as  surely  immortal.  There  is  another 
poem  of  the  same  genre,  "In  the  Edgware  Road," 
which  is  quite  as  admirable  for  different  reasons. 
I  doubt  if  a  more  scathing  and  poignant  satire  upon 
that  social  infamy  and  injustice  which  delivers  count- 
less women  to  ruin  has  ever  been  contrived  within 
so  brief  a  space.  These  are  the  concluding  verses: 

Will  you  not  buy?    She  asks  you,  my  lord,  you 
Who  know  the  points  desirable  in  such. 

She  does  not  say  that  she  is  perfect.     True, 
She's  not  too  pleasant  to  the  sight  or  touch : 

But  then — neither  are  you ! 


352      AT  THE   SIGN   OF  THE   VAN 

My  lord,  she  will  admit,  and  need  not  frame 
Excuses  for  herself,  that  she's  not  chaste. 

First  a  young  lover  had  her;  then  she  came 

From  one  man's  to  another's  arms,  with  haste: 

Your  mother  did  the  same. 

Moreover,  since  she's  married,  once  or  twice 
She's  sold  herself  for  certain  things  at  night. 

To  sell  one's  body  for  the  highest  price 

Of  social  ease  and  power,  all  girls  think  right: 

Your  sister  did  it  thrice. 

What,  you'll  not  buy?  You'll  curse  at  her  instead? — 
Her  children  are  alone,  at  home,  quite  near. 

These  winter  streets,  so  gay  at  night,  'tis  said, 
Have  'ticed  the  wanton  out.    She  could  not  hear 

Her  children  cry  for  bread! 

I  have  said  that  Adams  is  often  too  angry  to 
write  with  the  patience  and  reserve  that  Art  re- 
quires for  its  best  effects.  Many  of  these  pieces 
seem  to  have  been  struck  out  at  a  white  heat — the 
glow,  the  rage,  the  fire  are  still  palpable  in  them. 
They  are  as  plenary  and  perfect  as  a  curse.  They 
say  little  and  yet  leave  nothing  unsaid.  This,  for 
example : 

Where  is  poor  Jesus  gone? 

He  sits  with  Dives  now, 
'And  his  dogs  flesh  their  teeth 

On  Lazarus  below. 


A  POET  OF  THE  REVOLUTION      353 

Where  is  poor  Jesus  gone? 

The  poor  Samaritan, 
What  does  he  there  alone? 

He  stabs  the  wounded  man! 

Where  is  poor  Jesus  gone? 

The  Lamb  they  sacrificed? — 
They've  made  God  of  his  carrion 

And  labeled  it  "Chris?'! 

There  was  no  shilly-shally,  no  dilution,  no  tem- 
porizing about  Adams's  radicalism.  This  cultivated 
Englishman,  scion  of  the  stiff-necked  race  which  has 
given  Law  and  Order  to  more  than  half  the  world, 
is  the  most  thorough-going  red  and  rebel  known  to 
me.  He  glories  in  the  "execution"  of  Lord  Leitrim, 
the  now  nearly  forgotten  Irish  landlord  and  lecher, 
and  composes  a  Byronic  epitaph  for  him.  He  re- 
joices over  and  applauds  the  Phoenix  Park  affair  in 
which 

'An  Irish  Ruffian  met  his  doomt 
And  an  English  Gentleman! 

He  addresses  a  sonnet  to  Parnell  in  which  he  speaks 
of— 

The  wrong  that  is  as  one  with  England's  name, 
Tyranny  with  cant  of  liberty,  and  shame 
With  boast  of  righteousness. 


354      AT  THE  SIGN   OF  THE  VAN 

He  arraigns  Tennyson  in  a  brilliant  parody  of 
"Locksley  Hall"  for  his  treason  to  the  revolution- 
ary faith  of  his  youth ;  scores  Ruskin  for  his  uppish 
indifference  to  and  philistine  contempt  of  the  poor; 
celebrates  Karl  Marx  in  a  splendid  sonnet,  and 
flagellates  Swinburne  for  his  attitude  toward  Irish 
nationalism. 

He  attacks  British  rule  in  India,  in  Egypt  and  in 
Ireland,  not  least  of  all  in  England  itself.  He  de- 
nounces the  British  system  of  Property  and  Civiliza- 
tion and  hopes  to  see  it  overthrown.  Like  our  own 
Jack  London,  he  proclaims  himself  "for  the  Revo- 
lution," and  this  is  the  most  fortunate  of  his  moods 
in  a  literary  way.  And  always  he  is  in  earnest, 
terribly  in  earnest. 

But  the  jauntiest,  boldest  and  most  artistic  of 
these  songs  of  revolt,  with  something  in  the  lilt 
and  sway  of  it  that  recalls  Heine,  is  the  poem 
labeled  "In  Trafalgar  Square."  Nothing  that 
Adams  has  left  us  better  certifies  his  flame-hearted 
sincerity  as  a  worker  for  the  Revolution  or  his  po- 
tentiality as  an  artist  and  poet  to  whose  full  fruition 
and  development  only  time  was  lacking.  The  terse 
strength,  bravery  and  challenge  of  this  lyric  of  revo- 
lution are  scarcely  surpassed  by  anything  of  Kipling's. 

The  stars  shone  faint  through  the  smoky  blue; 
The  church  bells  were  ringing; 


A  POET  OF  THE  REVOLUTION      355 

Three  girls,  arms  laced,  were  passing  through, 

Tramping  and  singing. 
Their  heads  were  bare:   their  short  skirts  swung 

As  they  went  along ; 
Their  scarf-covered  breasts  heaved  up,  as  they  sung 

Their  defiant  Song. 

It  was  not  too  clean,  their  feminine  lay, 

But  it  thrilled  me  quite 
With  its  challenge  to  taskmaster  villainous  day 

And  infamous  night ; 

With  its  threat  to  the  robber  Rich,  the  Proud, 

The  respectable  Free. 
And  I  laughed  and  shouted  to  them  aloud, 

And  they  shouted  to  me ! 

"Girls,  that's  the  shout,  the  shout  we  shall  utter 

When,  'with  rifles  and  spades, 
We  stand,  with  the  old  Red  Flag  aflutter, 

On  the  barricades!" 

The  writer  of  these  clarion  verses  cannot  be  said 
to  have  failed  of  high  and  peculiar  distinction  as  a 
poet;  we  may  be  sure  that,  with  many  others  from 
the  same  hand,  they  will  not  perish  ere  the  rising  of 
the  Sun  of  Justice  for  the  Army  of  the  Night,  the 
disinherited  toilers  of  the  world  whom  Francis 
Adams  loved  with  so  perfect  a  devotion  and  to 
whom  he  gave  in  his  life  too  brief  the  best  fruits 


356      AT  THE   SIGN   OF  THE   VAN 

of  his  heart  and  brain.  He  has  given  us  no  word 
more  inspiring  than  the  epitaph  he  wrote  for  him- 
self: 

Bury  me  with  clenched  hands 

And  eyes  open  wide, 
For  in  storm  and  struggle  I  lived, 

And  in  struggle  and  storm  I  died. 

Of  the  merits  of  that  rare  and  wonderful  sacrifice, 
to  which  at  this  moment  I  can  think  of  no  equal 
recent  parallel,  I  have  not  spoken  at  all;  nor  is 
there  need  that  I  should.  Nor,  finally,  shall  we 
who  have  long  to  struggle  in  the  darkness  with  what 
conscience  and  courage  we  may,  attempt  to  judge 
this  brave  soldier  of  the  truth,  who  has  gone  forward 
into  the  Light  1 


BOOR  THE  FOURTH 

(TO  THE   LADY   OF  MILL   VALLEY)' 


w    ^ROM  a  sunken  Syrian  tomb  long  antedating 
f~4        the    Christian    era   Ernest   Renan    wiped 
JL  away  the  dust  and  found  inscribed  thereon 

the  single  word — "Courage!" 


THE     ENDLESS     WAR 

I  WAS  born  in  chains  and  have  been  breaking 
fetters  all  my  life.  Fetters  of  fear,  fetters 
of  superstition,  fetters  of  hereditary  hatred 
and  prejudice,  all  the  spiritual  gyves  that  are  pre- 
pared for  most  of  us  ere  we  are  bidden  into  this 
world.  A  slave  I  came  from  my  mother's  womb, 
and  I  am  not  yet  free.  Not  a  link  have  I  snapped 
in  my  struggle  for  liberty  but  the  ghosts  of  the 
Past  have  risen  up  to  reproach  me.  I  being  but 
human  am  often  tired  of  the  contest;  they,  immor- 
tal, ever  renew  it  with  a  passion  and  a  vigor  to 
which  weariness  is  unknown.  Before  I  was,  this 
battle  went  on  in  the  souls  of  those  from  whom  I 
inherit;  but  they  died  and  made  no  sign,  though  be- 
queathing the  duel  to  me.  Ah,  but  the  struggle  is 
long  and  the  end  is  ever  in  doubt.  What  the  Day 
gains  the  Night  reconquers.  No  matter — the  word 
is  still  to  fight  on! 

Often  the  ghosts  assail  me  with  arguments,  and 
well  they  know  how  to  seek  out  the  weakness  of  my 
soul:  "Canst  thou  be  happier  or  wiser  than  so  many 

359 


360      AT  THE   SIGN   OF   THE  VAN 

generations  of  thy  blood?  Why  dost  thou  strive 
to  cast  off  the  bonds  which  they  endured  patiently 
unto  righteousness?  In  sundering  these,  thou  dost 
break  also  with  them  and  art  become  an  apostate 
from  all  thy  foregathered  kin.  Have  a  care ! — the 
burden  of  thy  treason  shall  lie  heavy  on  thy  heart." 

In  faith  it  does  now,  and  my  reason  is  not  always 
ready  to  make  answer  to  this  accusing  Voice  of  the 
Chains.  I  should  be  more  at  ease,  no  doubt — for 
liberty  is  not  happiness — could  I  elect  to  silence  the 
voice  by  giving  over  my  reason  and  going  whither- 
soever the  ghosts  would  lead  me.  But  I  will  not 
buy  my  peace  at  such  a  price — I  will  not  be  false 
to  the  rule  of  mind  which  I  have  chosen  for  guide  in 
my  pilgrimage.  Ye  shall  not  write  me  among  the 
sinners  against  light!  .  .  . 

Yet  I  had  been  happier  had  I  never  thought  of 
my  bonds.  Many  I  know  that  wear  these  chains 
lightly,  as  not  wearing  them  at  all;  and  others 
cover  them  with  the  flowers  of  duty  and  devotion, 
and  sweet  Christian  humility — still  the  chains  are 
there !  For  the  Past  is  a  terrible  enslaver  and  these 
fetters  were  forged  in  a  time  so  remote  that  it  need 
fear  no  witnesses.  Yes,  the  Past  enslaves  and  the 
dead  oppress  us  more  than  the  living.  With  men 
in  the  flesh  like  ourselves,  we  can  do  battle — nay, 
we  can  even  feel  a  joy  in  the  fierce  grip  and  en- 
counter. But  there  is  less  satisfaction  in  this  busi- 
ness of  fighting  ghosts,  those  warriors  of  the  Past 


THE    ENDLESS   WAR  361 

who  seek  to  make  the  Present  and  the  Future  their 
own.  Here  we  touch  the  power  of  the  Unknown 
and  the  Unknowable  with  which  men  conjure  to-day 
as  potently  as  ever  in  the  past — the  ghosts  ever 
prompting  and  abetting. 

For  in  truth  the  history  of  the  past  two  hundred 
years  has  been  largely  a  battle  with  the  ghosts.  Not 
a  few  times  were  they  routed  and  dispersed,  but  al- 
ways they  reformed  their  shadowy  battalions  and 
came  back  again  to  the  issue.  Vainly  did  we  spend 
our  best  strength  upon  them — often  we  did  but 
wound  and  exhaust  ourselves,  while  the  goblins 
mocked  our  useless  efforts.  Oh,  we  did  not  come 
off  wholly  without  victory,  nor,  ghosts  though  they 
be,  did  they  go  quite  unscathed.  And  though  it  is 
just  that  we  reproach  ourselves  with  having  too  often 
shown  them  an  ill-judged  mercy,  we  did  wrest  from 
them  some  cruel  privileges  which  shall  never  be 
theirs  again.  We  did  strike  some  blows  that  were 
felt,  hard  as  it  is  to  wound  them,  and  of  this  we 
were  assured  by  the  grimaces  of  their  holy  repre- 
sentatives. 

And  if  they  now  again  attack  us  with  fresh  vigor 
and  in  numbers  undiminished,  we  too  have  enlisted 
for  the  endless  war.  Still  shall  we  rear  our  stand- 
ard against  this  tyranny  of  the  grave,  this  oppres- 
sion of  humanity  by  the  chimera  of  the  Unknown, 
this  vampyre  Past  that  sucks  out  the  life  and  hope 
and  joy  of  the  Present.  Still  shall  we  do  battle  with 


362      AT  THE   SIGN   OF  THE  VAN 

the  ghosts  of  man-made  myth  and  superstition  that 
so  long  have  held  the  human  soul  in  a  dominion  of 
terror.  Boldly  and  vigilantly  shall  we  dispute  them 
when  they  seek  to  rob  us  of  the  safe  landmarks  of 
reason,  that  they  may  have  power  to  drag  us  back 
unto  the  darkness  of  the  Past.  Nor  shall  we  be 
the  less  on  our  guard  when  they  come,  as  is  now 
their  wont,  with  flags  of  truce,  with  honeyed  compli- 
ments, with  fraternal  embraces,  nay,  even  with  an 
excellent  mimicry  of  the  very  speech  of  Liberty — 
it  is  the  endless  war  I 


II 

HELL     IS     DEAD 

IT  is  said  that  the  greatest  revolutions  accomplish 
themselves  silently.  A  striking  illustration  of 
this  is  seen  in  the  abolition  of  the  theologic 
Hell  which  has  taken  place  in  our  day.  It  has  been 
attended  by  no  religious  wars,  or  civic  bloodshed, 
or  St.  Bartholomews,  or  burnings  at  the  stake,  or 
inquisitorial  tortures.  Not  even  a  papal  Bull  has 
been  launched  to  save  the  monstrous  chimera  which 
was  so  long  deemed  a  supreme  article  of  religious 
faith.  The  oldest  of  Christian  churches  well  knows 
that  Hell  is  dying  a  natural  death — knows,  too,  that 
no  ancient  mummery  or  conjuration  will  avail  to  keep 
it  alive.  As  the  king's  touch  can  no  longer  cure 
the  king's  evil,  so  the  hand  of  the  Church  has  lost 
the  power  of  reluming  the  bale-fires  of  Hell.  I  do 
not  believe  that  the  Church  is  very  much  concerned 
because,  after  a  duel  of  many  ages,  it  knows  now 
that  it  can  not  contend  against  the  spirit  of  human- 
ity. Therefore,  it  has  learned  to  accept  defeat  with 
a  good  grace  and  even  to  turn  defeat  into  a  kind 
of  triumph  by  consenting  to  that  which  it  knows  to 

363 


364      AT  THE   SIGN   OF  THE  VAN: 

be  inevitable.  For  this  is  the  wisdom  of  the  ser- 
pent, and  it  is  this  which  we  now  see  in  the  attitude 
of  the  Church  toward  the  general  abandonment  of 
the  dogma  of  an  eternal  Hell. 

So  the  greatest  of  all  evils  raised  by  the  human 
imagination  is  at  last  perishing  under  the  sentence 
of  men,  its  ancient  fires  blackening  and  smoldering 
in  the  light  of  the  risen  sun  of  humanity.  But  do 
not  go  too  near,  for  it  is  not  dead  yet,  and  a  spiteful 
flame,  the  spirt  of  some  old  theologic  malice,  might 
leap  out  and  destroy  you!  I  think  indeed  that  it 
will  bear  watching  for  a  long  time  yet.  The  mon- 
ster is  perhaps  only  scotched,  not  killed;  and  that 
Terror  is  still  so  fresh,  so  fresh  and  awful !  that  we 
cannot  yet  regard  it  as  laid  forever.  Let  the  brav- 
est of  us  keep  watch  and  ward  over  the  monster 
that  it  come  not  back  into  full  life  again;  for  Hell 
is  so  cunning  and — think  of  it — it  has  lived  nine- 
teen hundred  years !  .  .  . 

The  Hell  of  theology  was  a  nightmare  creation 
of  human  fear  and  hate,  seasoned  with  the  perfectly 
human  qualities  of  malignity  and  vindictiveness  and 
malice,  which  we  are,  quite  without  warrant,  in  the 
habit  of  ascribing  to  the  Devil.  We  know  now  that 
the  Devil  had  no  claw  or  hoof  in  it,  and  that  this 
frightful  Hell,  which  the  world  received  during 
many  ages  in  the  name  of  Infinite  Love,  was  solely 
and  purely  the  work  of  men.  This  we  now  see 
clearly  by  examining  the  dreadful  legend  which  still 


HELL   IS    DEAD  365 

persists,  though  its  lurid  characters  are  fast  fading 
out  and  its  dominion  over  the  souls  of  men  broken 
forever. 

Yes,  Hell  is  gone  forever !  The  power  of  Dark- 
ness is  dissolved.  The  sun  of  Love  is  fully  arisen. 
The  stone  is  rolled  back  from  the  sepulchre  in  which 
the  human  spirit  has  been  shut  up  during  weary 
centuries.  The  most  terrible  of  all  despotisms  is 
shattered  in  the  dust.  The  greatest  of  all  deliver- 
ances is  achieved.  Hell  is  dead!  Proclaim  jubilee 
to  all  the  world!  Shall  we  not  sing  and  laugh  and 
dance  over  the  death  of  the  great  enemy  of  our 
race?  Has  it  not  filled  the  world  long  enough  with 
tears  and  terror,  and  shall  we  not  make  merry  over 
the  hideous  monster's  death,  as  our  best  tribute  to 
the  many  generations  that  wept  and  mourned  in  the 
shadow  of  Hell? 

It  is  a  fact  that  the  human  race  has  only  just 
escaped  from  Hell!  The  liberation  has  been 
wrought  in  our  day,  yet  so  silently  that  the  world 
has  scarcely  perceived  it.  But  the  future  historian 
will  write:  "Humanity  descended  into  Hell  in  the 
first  century  and  ascended  unto  Heaven  in  the  twen- 
tieth." Nineteen  hundred  years  in  Hell! — was  it 
not  long  enough,  O  God  of  mercy  and  justice !  .  .  . 

This,  then,  is  the  true  spiritual  emancipation  of 
the  human  race,  and  happy  are  we  who  have  been 
privileged  to  see  it.  Think  of  the  countless  martyrs 
who  died  by  fire  and  axe,  who  perished  in  loath- 


366      AT  THE   SIGN   OF  THE   VAN 

some  dungeons  or  broke  their  hearts  in  exile,  for 
only  daring  to  dream  of  this  glad  Era  of  Liberty 
which  now  is  ours!  Alas!  in  their  suffering  and 
misery,  their  torture  and  abandonment,  their  utter 
cutting  off  from  all  human  succor  and  their  consign- 
ment to  the  reprobation  of  the  damned, — how  they 
must  have  thirsted  for  a  sight  of  the  Ideal  City,  the 
true  Kingdom  of  God,  where  we,  more  fortunate  pil- 
grims, have  at  length  arrived!  Sainted  martyrs  of 
humanity,  yours  was  the  sad  and  bitter  sowing;  ours 
is  the  happy  harvest.  Blest  be  your  honored  names, 
encircled  with  fire  and  pain — and  thrice  blest  the 
nameless  ones  who  died,  unknown  and  unmarked,  in 
the  same  holy  cause !  Not  in  vain  did  you  steel  your 
souls  to  meet  the  fire,  the  torture,  the  supreme  bit- 
terness of  death.  Rejoice  from  the  Heaven  of  the 
just  whence  you  lean  to  acclaim  a  victory  that  is  all 
your  own:  the  light  that  you  foresaw  is  at  last 
risen  upon  the  world;  the  spirit  of  Hate  is  de- 
throned among  men;  the  Gates  of  Hell  shall  no 
longer  prevail  against  mankind  I 


Ill 


SAVING    THE     "SCHEME" 


SOME  time  ago  I  wrote  that  there  can  be  no 
truce  between  the  human  spirit  and  the  kind 
of  religion  which  rules  by  fear  and  thrives 
by  superstition — which  threatens  terribly  from  the 
Unknown,  menacing  the  race  with  Eternal  penalties, 
— the  same  old  proposition  that  has  oppressed  the 
heart  of  humanity  like  a  nightmare  since  it  became 
part  of  the  Gospel  of  Good  Tidings.     And  I  ven- 
tured further : 

You  say  that  Hell  is  not  preached  any  more? 
But  it  is  the  very  keystone  of  the  arch  of  theology  I 
This  holy  science  was  founded  upon  the  assumption 
of  the  total  depravity  of  God,  as  made  manifest  in 
the  dogma  of  Hell.  Take  away  that  dogma,  re- 
move that  stone,  and  you  pull  down  in  ruins  the 
house  of  orthodox,  theologic  Christianity.  The 
Christian  church  would  not  dare  repudiate  that 
dogma.  It  has  ruled  mankind  by  its  proud  claim  to 
hold  the  keys  of  Heaven  and  Hell,  and  it  has  per- 
suaded with  the  latter  when  all  other  arguments 
have  failed.  To  let  go  of  Hell  were  to  forfeit  the 

367 


368      AT  THE   SIGN   OF  THE   VAN 

half  of  its  dominion;  in  a  theologic  sense  Hell  is 
dearer  to  the  church  than  Heaven,  for  men  might, 
conceivably,  be  so  happy  in  this  world  as  to  care 
little  for  a  hypothetic  Paradise.  But  never,  never 
could  they  be  indifferent  to  the  threat  of  an  ever- 
lasting Hell ! 

Now  comes  the  news  that  Rev.  George  Tyrell,  a 
brilliant  Jesuit  writer,  has  been  obliged  to  withdraw 
from  the  order  on  account  of  his  lately  developed 
heretical  views  on  Hell  and  eternal  punishment.  His 
case  is  very  similar  to  that  of  St.  George  Mivart, 
who,  as  a  sincere  Catholic,  long  made  a  desperate 
effort  to  keep  his  theology  and  science  from  mixing, 
but  failed  at  last  and  was  excommunicated  by  a 
cardinal  without  scientific  scruples. 

St.  George  Mivart  was  kicked  to  death  spiritually 
by  the  Ass  of  Balaam  of  Beor,  concerning  Whom  he 
held  some  doubts.  (The  respectful  relative  pro- 
noun is  here  meant  for  the  Ass.)  A  large  part  of 
his  offending  also  was  that  he  offered  the  heretical 
opinion  that  the  Divine  Mercy  would  one  day  open 
the  gates  of  Hell.  Monstrous ! 

It  is  evident  that  St.  George  Mivart  was  too  senti- 
mental for  a  scientist  and  not  hard  enough  for  a 
theologian. 

The  Church  said,  "Out  with  him!" 

Now  behold  the  spectacle  of  another  man  who 
loves  the  Old  Faith  as  St.  George  Mivart  loved  it, 


SAVING   THE    "SCHEME"          369 

but  who  would  clear  it  of  its  horrors  and  give  it 
forth  anew  as  a  Gospel  of  Infinite  Love. 

What !  a  Priest  of  the  Jesuits  to  utter  such  abomi- 
nations !  Infamous ! 

The  Church  says,  "Out  with  him !" 

Tender  Christian  consciences  will  rejoice  that  the 
gates  of  Hell  still  prevail  against  mercy  and  human- 
ity— that  the  frightful  dogma  of  Eternal  Hate  re- 
mains untouched  in  the  Charter  of  Salvation.  .  .  . 

Speaking  of  Tyrell  and  the  Modernist  agitation 
in  Roman  Catholic  circles,  I  wonder  if  these  names 
suggest  any  definite  idea  or  association  to,  say,  one 
person  in  a  hundred  thousand: 

F.  Cardinal  De  Asculo, 

G.  Cardinal  Bentivolus, 
F.  Cardinal  De  Cremona, 
Fr.  Cardinal  Onuphrii, 

B.  Cardinal  Gypsius, 
F.  Cardinal  Verospius, 
M.  Cardinal  Ginethus. 

Probably  not;  yet  they  are  the  names  of  the  Car- 
dinals of  the  Most  Holy  Roman  Inquisition  who 
condemned  Galileo  for  teaching  "that  the  Earth  is 
not  the  center  of  the  World,  nor  immovable,  but 
moves  even  with  a  diurnal  motion." 

Galileo,  to  escape  severe  punishment  and  perhaps 
to  save  his  life — only  fifteen  years  before  Giordano 


370      AT  THE   SIGN   OF  THE  VAN 

Bruno  had  been  burned  alive  for  less  significant 
heresy  in  the  Forum  at  Rome — was  forced  to  abjure 
this  proposition,  declared  by  Their  Eminences  to  be 
"absurd,  false  in  philosophy,  and,  considered  theo- 
logically, an  error  in  Faith."  The  sentence  reads: 

"But  that  your  grievous  and  pernicious  error  and 
transgression  may  not  remain  altogether  unpun- 
ished, and  that  you  may  hereafter  be  more  cautious, 
serving  as  an  example  to  others,  that  they  may 
abstain  from  the  like  offences,  we  decree,  that  the 
book  of  the  Dialogue  of  Galileo  be  prohibited  by 
public  edict,  and  we  condemn  yourself  to  the  prison 
of  this  Holy  Office,  to  a  time  to  be  limited  by  our 
discretion;  and  we  enjoin  under  the  title  of  salutary 
penitence  that  during  three  years  to  come  you  recite 
once  a  week  the  Seven  Penitential  Psalms,  reserv- 
ing to  ourselves  the  power  of  moderating,  changing, 
or  taking  away  entirely,  or  in  part,  the  aforesaid 
penalties  and  penitences." 

It  has  been  persistently  asserted  that  Galileo  was 
put  to  the  torture  ere  he  yielded  and  recanted,  but 
this  has  not  been  proven.  He  did  not  talk  about 
it  himself — discretion  was  a  highly  useful  quality 
in  those  days. 

Galileo  took  his  medicine — he  was  seventy  years 
old  at  the  time  of  his  trial — and  thereafter  kept  his 
Modernism  to  himself.  He  died  a  faithful  Catholic 
— with  perhaps  one  reservation. 

The  name  of  Galileo  is  now  a  star  in  the  eternal 


SAVING   THE    "SCHEME"          371 

sky  of  fame,  while  Their  Eminences,  his  judges,  are 
clean  forgotten  of  the  world  and  their  names  known 
only  to  the  Spirit  of  Irony. 

The  story  is  not  so  old  but  the  Modernists  may 
extract  some  comfort  from  it. 


IV 

RENAN'S   LETTERS 

THERE  is  a  story,  improbable  enough  to  be 
true,  that  on  the  news  of  Ernest  Kenan's 
death  Pope  Leo  XIII  asked  eagerly,  "Did 
he  repent?"  Being  told  that  Renan  had  died  un- 
reconciled to  the  faith,  the  Pope  said  with  much  feel- 
ing, "Ah !  I  am  glad — then  he  was  sincere !" 

Whether  true  or  false,  this  little  story  (which 
does  no  violence  to  the  memory  of  the  gentle  Leo) 
will  take  its  place  with  the  canonized  anecdotes  of 
great  men  that  live  on  forever,  the  most  of  which 
have  been  shown  to  be  inventions,  and  the  rest  im- 
possible: no  matter — the  world  believes  what  it 
wishes  to  believe. 

I  have  been  reminded  of  it  in  turning  over  the 
large  volume  of  Renan's  "Letters  from  the  Holy 
Land,"  recently  brought  out  by  an  American  pub- 
lisher. The  title,  by  the  way,  is  a  misnomer,  and 
it  seems  to  have  been  devised  for  the  benefit  of  that 
section  of  the  public  which  knows  Renan  solely  from 
his  "Life  of  Jesus."  This  is  at  least  a  good  pub- 

372 


KENAN'S   LETTERS  373 

lisher's  reason  for  the  label  selected,  but  it  will  not 
satisfy  the  reader  of  nice  conscience  when  he  finds 
that  only  a  small  proportion  of  the  letters  are  "from 
the  Holy  Land,"  and  these  by  no  means  the  most 
valuable  or  interesting.  In  fact,  the  best  of  the 
letters,  from  a  literary  and  aesthetic  point  of  view, 
are  those  written  from  Italy,  while  the  personal 
interest  is  even  stronger  as  regards  certain  of  the 
letters  penned  in  France — these  latter  addressed 
both  to  M.  Berthelot  and  the  writer's  sister,  Hen- 
riette  Renan.  There  is  not,  however,  a  single  letter 
in  the  whole  collection  which  will  seem  without  value 
or  interest  to  admirers  of  the  greatest  liberal  writer 
and  scholar  of  the  nineteenth  century. 

Still,  you  will  not  get  even  in  the  best  of  these 
letters  more  than  a  hint  now  and  then  of  the  Renan 
of  literature,  of  the  "Life  of  Jesus,"  of  the  "Recol- 
lections of  My  Youth,"  and  a  score  of  masterpieces 
besides.  And  in  many  of  these  letters  you  will  no- 
tice a  singular  economy  of  expression,  as  if  the 
writer  were  holding  himself  back  and  did  not  care 
to  say  his  full  mind. 

This  was  precisely  Renan's  attitude  toward  letter- 
writing  in  general,  as  he  has  told  us  in  the  "Recol- 
lections." He  there  says  that  he  could  not  con- 
ceive of  a  writer's  expressing  himself  well,  to  and 
for  one  person:  he  himself  could  not  write  except 
for  the  public,  and  he  fears  that  his  correspond- 
ence, if  published,  will  disgrace  him.  This  confes- 


374      AT  THE   SIGN   OF   THE   VAN 

sion  explains,  as  Renan  meant  that  it  should,  the 
atonic  and  colorless  note  of  his  letters  in  general. 
But  the  true  lovers  of  his  work  have  no  reason  to 
complain,  for  he  put  into  literature  what  he  with- 
held from  the  few  who  shared  every  hope  of  his 
heart.  Humanly  the  man  suffers  by  this,  but  the 
writer  gains.  Had  Renan  done  a  work  less  great  in 
literature,  in  philology,  in  scientific  criticism,  one 
might  perhaps  be  disposed  to  challenge  his  over- 
whelming conception  of  the  importance  of  his  work, 
which  finally  became  the  sole  god  of  his  idolatry. 
But  his  achievement  answers  for  all. 

To  go  back  to  the  motive  of  this  article :  the  letter 
which  reminded  me  of  the  remark  attributed  to 
Pope  Leo  on  the  death  of  Renan  is  that  addressed 
to  M.  Berthelot,  bearing  date  July  20,  1892.  It 
was  the  last  letter  penned  by  Renan  and  was  indeed 
written  under  the  very  shadow  of  death.  Few 
things  he  has  done  better  reveal  the  quality  of  his 
spirit  than  this  letter,  whose  serene  philosophy  and 
undaunted  courage  must  be  prized  as  not  the  least 
part  of  that  testament  of  good  which  the  great 
liberal  bequeathed  to  the  world.  I  quote  a  part  of 
this  memorable  farewell,  in  which  we  hear  the  last 
brave  accents  of  Renan: 

"How  well  for  us,  dear  friend,  that  we  fixed  our 
philosophy  of  life  when  we  were  gay  and  strong! 
It  would  be  rather  late  now  to  consider  these  grave 
subjects,  threatened  as  we  are  with  the  end.  For 


KENAN'S   LETTERS  375 

myself,  I  have  established  my  ideas  in  this  regard 
by  continual  meditation,  and  the  subject  has  no  new 
aspects  for  me.  To  end  is  nothing:  I  have  almost 
filled  in  the  framework  of  my  life,  and  although  I 
could  make  good  use  of  a  few  years,  I  am  ready  to 
go.  What  is  cruel  is  the  havoc  one  causes  in  dear 
lives.  The  struggle  will  come  after  me.  Let  come 
what  will — I  shall  utilize  the  remnant  of  life  that  is 
left  to  me.  I  am  at  this  moment  correcting  the 
proofs  of  the  fourth  and  fifth  volumes  of  'Israel.' 
I  would  like  to  revise  the  whole  thing.  If  another 
does  this,  I  shall  be  very  impatient  in  the  depths  of 
Purgatory.  Outside  of  the  Eternal  and  myself,  no 
one  has  any  idea  of  the  changes  I  would  have  cared 
to  make.  God's  will  be  done!  In  utrumque 
•paratus."  .  .  . 

The  fear  of  a  mental  and  physical  decay  which 
would  perhaps  cause  him  at  the  last  to  recant  his 
liberal  faith,  long  haunted  Renan,  and  in  his  "Recol- 
lections" he  took  pains  to  repudiate  any  such  pos- 
sible compromise  or  backsliding  on  his  part.  His 
besetting  horror  seemed  to  be  lest  any  incident  con- 
nected with  his  death  should  contribute  to  the  "liter- 
ature of  edification,"  as  has  been  made  to  appear  in 
the  case  of  Voltaire  and  others.  The  care  was 
needless.  Death  found  Ernest  Renan  at  his  great- 
est: unbroken,  unsubdued,  without  dishonor  or  capit- 
ulation. Not  repenting  and  undoing  the  work  of 


376      AT  THE   SIGN   OF  THE  VAN 

his  life,  but  rejoicing  that  it  had  been  given  unto 
him  to  do.  Rejoicing  also  that  it  would  go  on  with- 
out him  and  regretting  only  the  inevitable  summons 
of  nature  which  called  him  from  his  beloved  and  un- 
finished task.  The  end  of  no  life  in  our  time  has  so 
keenly  accentuated  the  Great  Perhaps,  as  may  be 
seen  in  the  anecdote  here  given.  Think  what  you 
will  of  Kenan's  tremendous  hazard,  but  forget  not 
that  he  chose  this  motto  for  his  tombstone:  Verl- 
tatem  dilexl—>"l  have  loved  the  truth  I" 


TOLSTOY 

THE  man  who  may  be  said  to  have  most  ef- 
fectively   challenged    the    consciences    of 
men  of  our  day, — that  is  to  say,  for  the 
past  twenty-five  years, — was  not  the  Pope  of  Rome, 
nor  the  Archbishop  of  Canterbury,  nor  the  Procura- 
tor of  the  Holy  Russian  Synod,  nor  the  Grand  Llama 
of  Tibet,  nor  the  Great  Mufti  of  Stamboul.    It  was 
Leo  Tolstoy. 

The  Pope  of  Rome  is  a  kind  and  saintly  old  man, 
after  the  medieval  pattern,  but  he  has  had  much  to 
do  in  reforming  the  music  and  suppressing  the  ten- 
dency toward  Modernism  in  his  Church;  and  these 
are  strictly  matters  of  domestic  concern.  Besides,  he 
has  many  political  anxieties,  and,  being  a  sovereign, 
something  of  the  policy  of  kings  is  enjoined  upon 
him.  The  Pope  cannot  speak  except  as  Pope — there 
is  the  difficulty.  The  Archbishop  of  Canterbury  is 
very  nearly  a  theological  abstraction,  so  far  as  the 
world  at  large  is  concerned;  and  the  rest  have  their 
own  affairs  to  attend  to.  Remained  only  Leo  Tol- 
stoy to  proclaim  the  "Father's  business." 

377 


378      AT  THE   SIGN   OF   THE   VAN 

This  he  did  in  a  manner  so  compelling  as  to  arrest 
the  attention  and  trouble  the  hearts  of  men  through- 
out the  world.  Greater  than  Peter  the  Hermit,  he 
preached  the  Crusade  of  Peace,  boldly  taking  his 
texts  from  that  true  Christianity  which  priests  in 
their  cowardice  and  complaisance  have  ignored  from 
the  beginning.  No  layman  has  ever  gained  so  wide 
a  hearing.  And  no  churchman  has  ever  urged  the 
divine  lessons  of  the  Gospel  with  such  clamant  force 
as  this  man  Tolstoy  who  did  not  believe  that  Christ 
was  God! 

I  admit  that,  speaking  only  for  himself,  he  en- 
joyed a  certain  advantage  over  the  great  religious 
functionaries  mentioned  above.  The  Pope  of  Rome 
could  not  voice  a  crusade  against  war,  because  he 
is  himself  a  sovereign,  and  it  is  the  habit  of  his 
brother  sovereigns  to  make  war  from  time  to  time. 
To  be  sure,  the  Pope  does  not  approve  of  war,  but 
for  political  reasons  he  could  not  go  to  the  lengths 
Tolstoy  has  gone  in  denouncing  it.  Neither  could 
the  Pope  advocate  the  pure  Gospel  idea  of  equality 
among  men,  with  the  renunciation  of  all  titles  and 
badges  of  superiority  (as  Tolstoy  also  has  done), 
for  that  were  to  work  "folly  in  Israel,"  since  the 
Roman  Catholic  Church  is  in  form  a  kingdom  and 
its  organization  thoroughly  aristocratic,  being  mod- 
eled upon  that  of  the  Kingdom  of  Heaven.  So  the 
Church  is  logically  bound  to  defend  and  promote 


TOLSTOY  379 

the  aristocratic  idea,  and  to  me  at  least  that  seems 
to  be  no  small  share  of  its  business  in  the  world. 

Now,  the  Archbishop  of  Canterbury  is  in  even  a 
worse  position  than  the  Pope  to  dispute  the  unques- 
tioned moral  primacy  of  Tolstoy.  For  the  Arch- 
bishop of  Canterbury  is,  in  a  sense,  the  Pope  of 
England,  and  England  is  the  chief  war-making 
power  in  the  world.  Therefore,  his  Grace  of  Can- 
terbury is  barred  from  denouncing  the  greatest  evil 
that  afflicts  humanity,  and  he  doubtless  makes  truce 
with  his  conscience  by  reflecting  that,  after  all, 
Tommy  Atkins  clears  the  way  for  the  British  evan- 
gelist. 

Even  more  is  my  Lord  tabooed  from  sharing  or 
giving  voice  to  the  leveling,  socialistic  notions  of 
Tolstoy.  It  is  true  these  are  derived  strictly  from 
the  plain  letter  of  the  Gospel;  but  the  English 
Church,  like  the  parent  Church  of  Rome,  is  content 
to  draw  inspiration  and  authority  from  within  itself. 
Besides,  Church  and  State  are  united  in  England, 
and  society  is  rigorously  organized  on  the  aristo- 
cratic basis.  I  need  not  pursue  this  analogy  with 
the  Procurator  and  the  Grand  Llama  and  the  Great 
Mufti — it  is  clear  enough  why  they  are  silent  in 
the  matter. 

But  Tolstoy?  There  was  nothing  to  withhold 
him  from  speaking  his  full  mind,  and  it  was  to 
words  like  these  that  men  listened  with  an  attention 
which  no  other  living  teacher  could  command : 


380      AT   THE   SIGN   OF   THE   VAN 

"All  over  Russia,  from  the  palace  to  the  remotest 
village,  the  pastors  of  churches,  calling  themselves 
Christians,  appeal  to  that  God  who  has  enjoined 
love  to  one's  enemies — to  the  God  of  Love  Himself  I 
— to  help  the  work  of  the  devil  to  further  the  slaugh- 
ter of  men.  .  .  .  Christian  pastors  continue  to  in- 
vite men  to  the  greatest  of  crimes,  continue  to  com- 
mit sacrilege,  praying  God  to  help  the  work  of 
war.  .  .  .  Japanese  theologians  and  religious  teach- 
ers do  not  remain  behind  the  Europeans  in  the 
technique  of  religious  deceit  and  sacrilege,  but  dis- 
tort the  great  Buddhistic  teaching  by  not  only  per- 
mitting but  justifying  that  murder  which  Buddha 
forbade.  ...  It  is  as  if  there  never  had  existed 
the  Christian  and  Buddhistic  teaching  about  the 
unity  of  the  human  spirit,  the  brotherhood  of  men, 
love,  compassion,  the  sacredness  of  human  life." 

Tolstoy  has  made  war  upon  much  that  the  polite 
world  calls  art  and  has  run  foul  of  the  professional 
critics  whose  traditions  he  has  riddled  and  the  hon- 
esty of  whose  practice  he  has  called  in  question.  In 
return  the  critics,  while  praising  his  imaginative 
work,  affect  to  hold  his  religious,  esthetic  and  hu- 
manitarian ideas  in  small  esteem.  Referring  to  his 
book,  "What  Is  Art?" — which  has  excited  so  much 
discussion  in  Europe,  though  it  is  but  little  known 
in  this  country — Emile  Faguet  of  the  French  Acad- 
emy writes : 


TOLSTOY  381 

"It  is  a  failure  and  often  truly  childish.  The 
same  may  be  said  of  all  the  intellectual  books  of 
Tolstoy.  As  a  creator,  as  a  romancer,  as  an  epic 
poet,  Tolstoy  is  one  of  the  four  or  five  greatest 
geniuses  of  our  age.  As  a  thinker  he  is  one  of  the 
feeblest  minds  in  Europe." 

Yet  Tolstoy's  so-called  heresies  as  to  art,  which 
have  procured  for  him  the  disesteem  of  M.  Faguet 
and  his  critical  brethren,  are  only  another  expression 
of  the  great  man's  love  for  humanity.  He  rejects 
the  fashionable,  i.  e.,  accepted  theory  of  art,  be- 
cause it  has  to  do  with  the  art  of  a  class,  an  art  that 
is  foreign  to  the  sympathies  of  the  mass  of  men. 
Whatever  the  critics  may  say,  this  is  the  pure  Tol- 
stoyan  gospel,  and  it  is  this  gospel,  rather  than  the 
novels  of  his  youth  and  middle  age,  which  has  given 
Tolstoy  his  universal  fame. 

His  lasting  fame,  too,  I  think.  It  is  strange  how 
the  critics,  blind  and  perverse  in  their  generation  as 
always,  refuse  to  see  that  it  was  the  burning  love 
of  humanity  in  Tolstoy, — a  love  which  even  in  his 
old  age  constantly  urged  him  to  fresh  efforts, — that 
made  him  a  grand  and  solitary  figure  in  the  world 
of  our  day. 

Thus  it  chances  that  since  the  voice  of  Voltaire 
rang  out  at  Ferney,  crying  a  halt  to  despotism  and 
bigotry,  no  man  has  been  able  to  challenge  the  con- 
science of  Europe  as  Leo  Tolstoy  has  done.  The 
moral  authority  of  this  man,  which  sprang  from  his 


382      AT   THE   SIGN   OF   THE   VAN 

righteous  anger  and  earnestness,  was  tremendous. 
It  was  far  greater  than  that  of  the  Holy  Russian 
Church  which  sought  to  extinguish  and  silence  him, 
for  the  Holy  Russian  Church  rules  its  mindless  mil- 
lions while  Tolstoy  appealed  to  intelligence  in  every 
land.  The  present  amiable  Pope  pottering  with  the 
Georgian  chant,  or  opposing  the  Mediaeval  past  to 
the  Modern  present,  the  Archbishop  of  Canterbury 
fiddling  with  questions  of  the  ritual,  the  Procurator 
of  the  Holy  Synod  offering  vain  prayers  for  the 
Russian  cause,  had  surely  little  in  common  with  this 
Old  Man  Terrible  who  clutched  the  world  by  the 
throat  and  made  it  hear! 

And  most  wonderful  of  all,  though  rejecting  the 
divinity  of  Christ,  Tolstoy's  word  has  probably  done 
more  than  any  other  personal  influence  in  our  day 
to  drive  men  to  the  study  of  the  Gospel. 


VI 

HOLY    MOTHER 

YOU  are  doubtless  aware,  Sir,  that  Mrs. 
Eddy  is  now  living  almost  wholly  in  the 
psychic?"  .  .  . 

At  these  words,  spoken  in  a  mild  explanatory  tone 
and  as  if  conveying  the  purest  matter-of-fact,  I 
looked  up  to  meet  a  friendly  glance  from  the  keen- 
eyed,  clerical  gentleman  beside  me. 

To  while  away  an  hour  on  the  railroad  I  had  been 
turning  over  the  leaves  of  a  magazine  article  on  the 
founder  of  Christian  Science — as  one  must,  I  sup- 
pose, now  call  Mrs.  Eddy.  It  was  one  of  a 
current  series,  certifying  to  much  painful  in- 
dustry in  the  way  of  hunting  up  old  parish  records 
and  baptismal  registers,  bringing  to  light  old  photo- 
graphs, revamping  ancient  and  half-forgotten  gos- 
sip, etc.,  but  without  a  trace  of  genial  art  (which 
failure  may  possibly  be  due  to  the  nature  of  the 
subject),  and  marked  throughout  by  a  sufficiently 
candid  but  carefully  indicated  depreciation  of  the 
strange  woman  whose  history  is  therein  set  forth. 

I  had  been  lost  in  wonder  at  the  sordid  begin- 

383 


3  84      AT  THE   SIGN  OF  THE  VAN 

nings  of  what  is  now  a  great,  rich  and  powerful  sect, 
to  which  the  world  uncaps  as  always  to  wealth  and 
power,  if  not  to  greatness  without  these  attributes. 
I  had  been  marveling  at  the  strange  life  story,  re- 
pellant  for  the  most  part,  of  the  woman  who  is  re- 
garded as  Divine  by  thousands  of  believers,  her  ex- 
treme age  itself — she  is  nearly  ninety — being  ac- 
cepted as  a  warrant  of  supernatural  exemption. 
Who  without  means  or  education,  friends  or  follow- 
ers to  speak  of,  established  a  "College  of  Meta- 
physics" and  was  herself  the  chief  teacher  therein 
(though  Heaven  or  Calvin  Frye  alone  knows  where 
she  got  her  metaphysics,  and  neither  will  tell) .  Who 
without  warrant  or  ordination  save  her  own,  she 
being  then  almost  an  old  woman,  set  her  hand  to 
the  founding  of  a  sect,  the  Church  of  Christian  Sci- 
ence, which  she  has  lived  to  see  go  far  beyond,  in 
zeal,  in  the  high  character  of  its  membership,  in  all 
things  that  make  for  success  and  influence  and  pres- 
tige, not  a  few  rivals  that  have  existed  since  the  six- 
teenth century.  Who  without  learning  or  literary 
ability  somehow  contrived  to  write  a  book  of  suffi- 
cient crude  power  and  inspiration  to  be  accepted  as  a 
depository  of  Sacred  Truth  by  thousands  of  intelli- 
gent people,  and  whose  claim  to  the  substantial  au- 
thorship of  this  Christian  Science  Testament  has 
been  seriously  discredited  neither  by  the  efforts  of 
acute  critics  (including  the  foremost  living  writer  * 

*Mark  Twain. 


HOLY    MOTHER  385 

in  America),  nor  by  the  charges,  open  or  veiled,  of 
her  several  literary  assistants,  nor,  greatest  marvel 
of  all,  by  her  own  proven  incompetency.  Who  in 
spite  of  her  great  age — she  is  many  years  older  than 
the  Pope — still  rules  her  vast  communion  with  per- 
fect poise  and  undiminished  authority,  crushing  out 
disloyalty  as  it  develops,  overcoming  heresies  as  they 
arise  from  time  to  time,  and  foiling  all  the  efforts  of 
her  adversaries,  whether  within  or  without  the  fold, 
with  a  prescience,  a  sagacity  and  a  resolution  that 
well-nigh  justify  the  superstitious  reverence  of  her 
followers. 

Here,  I  mused,  is  a  story  so  marvelous,  yet  so 
simple  and  so  potently  wrought  of  the  material  of 
human  interest,  that  even  this  prejudging  and  depre- 
ciating magazine  writer  could  not  wholly  spoil  it. 
What  a  proof  of  the  power  of  the  Mystical  and  the 
Unknown  to  sway  the  human  mind!  Here,  after 
centuries  of  Christianity,  after  Popes  and  Reforma- 
tions, Canons  and  Councils,  Acts  and  autos-da-fe, 
schisms  and  synods  galore,  when  the  Christian  Creed 
is  thought  to  be  outworn  and  seems  to  be  all  but  ex- 
plicitly disavowed  by  a  skeptical  generation, — here, 
in  this  very  moment  of  the  failing  of  the  fires,  comes 
a  daring,  illiterate,  tremendously  endowed  woman  to 
extract  a  new  potency  from  the  old  religion  and,  it 
may  be,  to  give  it  a  fresh  lease  upon  the  hearts  of 
mankind.  A  miracle  in  an  age  that  investigates  and 
scoffs  at  miracles!  A  religious  founder  in  a  time 


386       AT  THE   SIGN   OF   THE   VAN 

that  is  smugly  tolerant  but  not  vitally  conscious  of 
religion !  But  at  this  point  the  clerical-looking  gen- 
tleman cut  in  upon  my  revery.  .  .  . 

"I  can't  say  that  I  have  closely  considered  the 
matter,"  I  said,  with  a  view  to  being  both  neigh- 
borly and  non-committal  at  the  same  time. 

"Well,  Sir,  I  have,"  said  the  gentleman,  with  a 
pervasive  warmth  of  conviction.  "And,  I  repeat, 
she  is,  unquestionably, — yes,  I  dare  even  say  demon- 
strably,  living  in  the  psychic. 

"Many  Christian  Scientists,  as  you  are  doubtless 
informed,  take  higher  ground  and  assert  that 
Mother  Eddy  is  now  living  in  the  spiritual — in 
point  of  fact,  they  maintain  that  she  has  been  living 
in  the  spiritual  a  long  time." 

I  looked  the  perplexity  which  these  words  in- 
duced. 

"Pardon  me.  You  are  not  perhaps  a  believer  in 
Christian  Science?" 

"I  am  not  an  adherent  of  it,  as  a  sect,"  I  amended. 
"But  I  am  without  prejudice  toward  it,"  I  added 
quite  candidly,  and  as  not  wishing  to  be  outdone  in 
courtesy. 

The  clerical  gentleman  bowed.  "I  should  then 
explain  that  those  who  take  an  extreme  hieratic  view 
of  Mrs.  Eddy — and  they  are  the  bulk  of  the  Chris- 
tian Science  communion — hold  the  belief,  which  I 
in  common  with  many  moderate  adherents  do  not 
sharet — that  she  is  now  living  absolutely  in  the  spir- 


HOLY    MOTHER  387 

itual;  that  is,  in  spite  of  the  conditions  of  mortal  life 
which  she  fulfills  and  by  which  she  is  surrounded, 
living  already  with  God  in  a  real  sense!  A  similar 
notion,  you  will  remember,  was  entertained  regard- 
ing the  late  Pope  Leo  XIII,  induced  by  his  extreme 
age  and  piety  and  the  almost  transparent  envelope  in 
which  his  spirit  was  confined.  We  moderate  Chris- 
tian Scientists  maintain,  on  the  contrary,  that  Mother 
Eddy  is  living  almost  wholly  in  the  psychic :  as  truly 
and  materially  of  the  earth  as  ever  and,  notwith- 
standing, wrapt  in  a  state  of  psychic  consciousness 
which  is  no  doubt  the  last  remaining  veil  now  left 
between  her  and  Immortal  Life." 

"Really,  the  distinction  does  not  seem  so  great," 
I  ventured  to  suggest. 

"Ah,  but  it  is,  Sir,"  the  gentleman  said  more 
warmly  than  before.  But  here  our  train  pulled  into 
the  station  at  Hoboken  and  we  were  torn  asunder 
by  the  crowd  madly  bent  on  different  ferries.  My 
unknown  friend  had  the  presence  of  mind  to  fling 
me  a  card  on  which  I  read, — "H.  Hetherington 
Botts,  C.  S.,"  with  some  further  particulars  that  I 
need  not  disclose.  Also  he  left  with  me  the  reflec- 
tion that  a  faith  without  heresies  would  not  be 
recognized  in  this  world  any  more  than  Christ's 
seamless  garment;  and  that  Mother  Eddy,  with  the 
wisdom  that  ranks  her  whilst  still  in  the  flesh  with 
the  divinities  that  rule  the  world,  will  not  make  the 
mistake  of  leaving  a  too  perfect  unity  behind  her. 


388       AT  THE   SIGN   OF  THE   VAN 

As  for  the  marvel  of  her  continued  power  and 
existence,  I  have  this  to  say:  that  if  she  were  merely 
a  feebly  animated  mummy  or  death's  head,  or,  as 
her  "next  friends"  aver,  a  senile  idiot  cunningly 
trained  and  tended  by  Calvin  Frye  and  mysteriously 
secluded  with  a  view  to  creating  a  superstitious  rev- 
erence in  her  followers,  I  should  not  the  less  give 
thanks  for  the  lesson  of  her  life  and  work;  and 
especially  for  the  revealing  light  it  throws  upon 
much  that  is  obscure  in  the  history  of  religion. 


VII 

MEDIEVALISM 

MEDIEVALISM  looks  grotesque  and  fool- 
ish as  a  masque  of  mummies  with  painted 
dead  faces,  in  that  syllabus  of  vulgarity, 
the  modern  newspaper.  This  draught  of  cold  air 
is  fatal  to  its  hothouse  debility,  so  carefully  tended, 
primped  and  petted  through  so  many  ages.  This 
vulgar  expose  makes  mock  of  that  august  dignity, 
that  tremendous  tradition  by  which  alone  Mediaeval- 
ism  can  maintain  sufferance  or  respect.  'Twas  a 
mad  idea  to  have  in  the  reporter,  that  pestilent  mar- 
plot, that  arch-agent  of  skepticism  and  irreverence. 
Let  their  Holinesses  look  to  it!  Turn  the  fellow 
out  neck  and  heels,  if  ye  would  save  what  remains. 
Poor  old  Mediaevalism !  How  unwise  to  make 
this  exhibition  of  itself  in  the  crude  and  all-penetrat- 
ing light  of  the  twentieth  century!  Vanitas  vani- 
tatum! — even  the  old  are  not  exempt  from  human 
weakness,  and  there  is  no  wisdom  without  a  mixture 
of  folly.  Poor  old  Mediaevalism ! — it  would  put 
on  its  bedizened  robes  of  antique  fashion,  its  furbe- 
lows, and  flounces  and  all  the  trappings  wherewith 

389 


390       AT  THE   SIGN   OF  THE   VAN 

it  was  wont  to  carry  awe  even  unto  kings,  and  rouge 
its  poor  old  wrinkled  face,  and  call  for  its  best 
crutches,  and  then,  with  a  brave  show  of  dignitaries 
and  thurifers  and  acolytes  and  train-bearers,  go 
forth  into  the  light  of  day!  Never,  never  was  its 
Illustrious  Sanctity  guilty  of  such  madness  before, 
and  Heaven  alone  knows  what  will  come  of  it! 

For  of  a  truth  the  Dominion  of  Clothes  is  at  an 
end,  and  there  is  not  a  rag  left  in  the  wardrobe  of 
the  Middle  Ages  by  which  the  lease  may  be  renewed. 
All  the  bandboxes  have  been  opened  and  rummaged, 
boxes  filled  with  the  costly  offerings  of  a  world's  piety 
and  fear  during  a  thousand  years.  Purple  and  scar- 
let and  velvet  and  lace,  copes  and  chasubles  sewn 
with  pearls,  dalmaticas  alight  with  diamonds,  jew- 
eled crozier,  Peter's  ring, — all  the  old  paraphernalia 
have  been  tried  on,  to  no  purpose.  The  play,  as  a 
play,  is  still  the  finest  in  the  world,  but  there  is  one 
fatal  objection  to  it — it  is  woefully  out  of  date  and 
a  spectacle  for  yawning  even  unto  the  faithful.  It 
has  had  the  longest  run  of  which  there  is  any  human 
record,  but  its  period  approaches;  the  mystery  and 
awe  and  wonder  have  largely  evaporated — and  the 
journalist  is  here  to  destroy  the  last  shred  of  illu- 
sion! 

Doubt  not,  your  Holinesses,  that  such  is  his  func- 
tion, and  see  to  it  that  he  come  in  no  more !  Let 
Medievalism  have  a  care  how  it  seeks  to  make 
truce  with  that  child  of  the  Devil,  the  Modern  Spirit. 


MEDIEVALISM  391 

Retro  Sat  anas! — this  Journalism  is  an  obsequious, 
time-serving  varlet,  a  duteous  knee-crooking  knave, 
if  you  please,  but  one  before  whom  all  kings  and 
pontiffs  and  potentates  lack  reverence.  Those  pea- 
cock processions, — scarlet  Cardinals,  purple  Bish- 
ops, violet  Monsignori,  sable  Jesuits, — with  all  the 
pomp  of  a  sacrosanct  Vanity  Fair,  and  all  the  splen- 
dor of  the  most  gorgeous  priesthood  in  the  world; 
those  genuflections  and  obeisances  and  prostrations, 
those  kissings  of  hand  and  foot  and  all  that  mock 
abasement  in  which  Pride  gravely  curtsies  to  Humil- 
ity; those  magnificent  ceremonies  derived  from  an 
age  when  the  Pope  was  King  of  kings  and  the 
mightiest  Monarch  was  humbled  before  him;  that 
ancient  ritual  of  words,  words,  words,  in  a  dead 
tongue,  with  a  tired  Old  Man  nodding  under  ostrich 
plumes;  and  all  the  wonderful  dramatic  spectacle 
associated  with  immemorial  faith,  veneration  and 
authority, — how  vain  and  pitiful  it  all  seems  in  the 
merciless  vulgar  spectrum  of  the  daily  newspaper! 
How  utterly  foreign  to,  and  incompatible  with,  that 
universal  intelligence,  ever  freshening  and  recreat- 
ing the  human  thought  which  we  call  the  Modern 
Spirit!  Like  a  long-vanished  world  restored  by 
some  incredible  conjuration,  which  is  yet  the  more 
surely  dead  for  the  appearance  of  life  it  is  made 
to  bear. 

A  simile  at  which  Rome  the  Eternal  can  afford  to 
smile,  perhaps,  with  her  linked  chain  of  centuries 


392       AT  THE  SIGN   OF  THE  VAN 

behind  her,  the  keys  of  Heaven  and  Hell  in  her 
hand  still  transcending  all  earthly  sovereignty,  the 
millions  of  her  fold  more  numerous  and  the  limits 
of  her  spiritual  dominion  more  widely  extended  than 
ever  before.  Has  she  not  made  good  her  losses  of 
the  past?  To  whom  else  shall  the  world  in  future 
turn  for  assurance  and  unity,  for  that  Principle  of 
Authority  which  alone  can  be  relied  upon  to  hold 
the  menacing  millions  in  check,  who  begin  to  inter- 
rogate more  and  more  the  claims  of  all  principalities 
and  powers?  .  .  . 

Be  it  so  if  so  it  be:  the  credit,  in  any  event,  is 
not  due  to  any  Salian  pageant  at  Rome,  but  to  the 
Eternal  Christ  who  walks  all  ways  of  the  world  pur- 
suing His  mission.  And,  to  repeat,  if  Mediaevalism 
be  wise,  it  will  either  burn  its  books  of  magic,  like 
Prospero,  or  show  the  journalist  to  the  door.  For, 
if  age  have  not  too  grievously  addled  its  brains,  it 
should  remember  that  its  worst  troubles  in  the  past 
were  due  to  this  same  Devil  and  this  same  Black 
Art  of  printing!  .  .  .  Nay,  of  a  truth  I  do  not 
believe  that  the  world  will  ever  take  a  second  course 
of  Mediaevalism. 

That  some  pious  and  excellent  people  would  like 
it  I  make  no  question.  In  the  matter  of  keeping 
the  common  herd  under  foot  or  at  heel,  believing 
what  their  masters  wished  them  to  believe  and  re- 
jecting aught  else  as  a  damnable  heresy,  the  Middle 
Ages  certainly  outshine  any  other  period  of  re- 


MEDIEVALISM  393 

corded  history.  No  wonder  then  that  all  who  hate 
or  fear  the  people  look  back  to  those  far  distant 
times  with  regret  and  seek  to  revive  their  vanished 
spells  and  lifeless  mummeries.  No  wonder  that  a 
waning  ecclesiasticism,  recreant  to  the  simple  faith 
of  the  Founder,  hopes  to  refurbish  its  purple  and 
mayhap  sharpen  its  fasces  by  the  borrowed  light  of 
that  long-quenched  mediaeval  sun.  No  wonder  that 
there  is  an  unwonted  stir  of  life  among  all  the  creep- 
ing, slow  and  venomous  creatures  that  ever  strive 
to  hinder  the  advance  of  the  race.  .  .  . 

But  it  is  a  false  dawn  that  those  medievalists 
think  they  see,  a  phosphorescence  as  of  death,  a 
flickering  sheen  as  of  Golgotha,  the  place  of  skulls. 
Spare  your  prayers  and  incantations,  Messieurs; — 
they  are  quite  useless.  For,  worthy  men  and  phi- 
losophers though  you  be,  there  is  one  trivial  cir- 
cumstance which  you  have  not  learned  to  take  into 
account.  Shall  I  tell  you  what  it  is?  .  .  . 

Time  never  goes  backward! 


VIII 


IT  was  a  grave  writer  (no  pun  intended),  one 
Ecclesiastes,  who  said  that  the  thing  which 
has  been  is  that  which  shall  be,  for  verily 
there  is  nothing  new  under  the  sun.  Hence  I  salute 
a  passing  institution — the  Grave  as  We  Know  It: 
and  a  returning  one — the  Crematorium  of  the  past. 
The  grave  as  we  know  it, — what  is  it  but  a  whited 
sepulcher  full  of  dead  men's  bones  and  all  unclean- 
ness,  often  a  place  from  which  the  Dead  reach  forth 
unseen  hands  to  drag  down  the  Living?  Not  all 
the  funereal  frippery  ever  devised  or  devisable  by 
the  Undertakers'  Trust, — the  costliest  "casket"  of 
cedar  or  mahogany,  upholstered  with  satin  wherein 
one  cannot  get  the  backache;  the  gold  or  silver 
handles  thereof,  by  which  we  mutely  testify  to  the 
worth  of  the  deceased;  and  those  various  et  ceteras 
that  eke  out  a  Mortuary  Bill  which  somewhat  quali- 
fies our  grief  when  all  is  safely  over, — shall  make  it 
other  than  a  Horror  and  an  Abomination.  Oh  that 
you  might  collect  the  later  and  competent  opinion 
of  the  Party  of  the  First  Part  in  the  resurrection 

394 


ASHES    TO   ASHES  395 

choker  and  the  skeleton  dress  suit  (invented  by  some 
"mortician"  of  genius).  You  would  then  realize 
that  the  Abomination  is  the  greater  and  the  Horror 
the  grislier  and  more  unmitigated  in  proportion  to 
the  costliness  of  the  layout! 

Can  anything  more  terrible  be  imagined  than 
Nature's  duel  with  the  poor  mortality  enclosed  by  a 
foolish  vanity  in  a  metallic  coffin?  Pity  Dives  pickled 
and  thus  put  away  under  his  proud  Mausoleum,  con- 
demned by  his  riches  to  such  an  inferno  for  his 
senseless  clay,  and  envy  poor  Lazarus  his  niche  in 
the  Potter's  Field  and  the  paltry  pine  box  which 
soon  releases  him  by  the  merciful  process  of  Nature 
to  a  new  life  in  worm  and  insect,  in  grass  and 
flower.  There  is  but  one  imaginable  horror  worse 
than  the  state  of  Dives — to  waken  from  a  trance 
and  find  oneself  in  a  patent  hinge-sunk,  hermetically 
sealed  coffin,  made  originally  perhaps  for  the  assur- 
ance of  widows. 

Far  be  it  from  me  to  make  light  of  any  person's 
feelings  or  sensibilities.  I  know  that  my  subject  is 
full  of  peril;  that  the  Grave  as  an  Institution  is  not 
to  be  trifled  with;  that  to  advocate  a  different 
method  from  the  immemorial  and  Holy  Horror  is 
like  attacking  the  Scheme  of  Salvation;  and  that  he 
who  does  so  is  sure  to  incur  the  Anathema  of  every 
theologian  and  undertaker  in  the  land.  Neverthe- 
less, if  the  court  pleases,  I  should  prefer  not  to  be  a 
Skull!  The  humor  of  this  Yorick  business  never 


396      AT  THE  SIGN   OF  THE  VAN 

appealed  to  me,  though  we  are  supposed  to  hold 
our  sides  at  the  Elizabethan  clownery.  I  should 
not  care  to  be  knocked  about  the  sconce  by  some 
old  gaffer  sexton,  grimy  and  foul  with  handling  the 
relics  of  mortality.  Yet  to  this  favor  must  we  all 
come  at  last,  as  the  Bard  jocosely  reminds  us 
(plague  on  his  humor! — he  that  put  his  own  bones 
under  a  sulphurous  taboo).  Or — as  I  once  saw  in 
an  abandoned  cemetery  of  poor  Irish  dead — to  have 
my  bones  nuzzled  over  by  the  rooting  swine.  Faugh 
upon  such  indecency !  Give  me  the  clean  consuming 
fire. 

Pagan!  you  cry.  But  the  pagans  (who,  saving 
your  courtesy,  were  our  remote  forefathers)  did 
several  things  better  than  we,  and  this  was  one  of 
them.  They  did  not  fear  death  as  ~ye  do,  in  spite 
of  our  Christian  hope,  for  they  destroyed  death  at 
once  and  kept  only  a  handful  of  ashes, — a  mere  sym- 
bol, but  sufficient,  of  the  life  that  had  been.  They 
did  not  coddle  death  and  make  it  a  monstrous  Van- 
ity, and  trick  it  up  in  a  ghastly  Parody  of  life,  and 
lay  it  out  in  a  metallic  coffin  that  should  cheat  the 
necessary  process  of  Nature  and  long  preserve  the 
horror  of  physical  corruption.  Their  cities,  towns 
and  villages  were  not  threatened  with  cemeteries  on 
all  sides,  filled  with  slow-decaying  dead,  many  of 
them  keeping  for  years  a  terrible  similitude  of  life. 
They  did  not,  by  their  unnatural  disposition  of  the 
dead,  create  belief  in  Ghosts  and  Vampires,  thus 


ASHES   TO    ASHES  397 

producing  a  whole  literature  of  terror  and  filling 
the  world  with  fear.  No;  the  pagans  were  wiser 
than  we,  and  even  more  humane  in  their  paganism. 
For  to  their  good  servant  Fire,  the  cleanser  and 
remover,  they  gave  the  worn-out  husk  of  the  body, 
and  were  not  disturbed  by  the  thought  of  any  un- 
sightly vestige  of  it  remaining.  A  handful  of  ashes 
for  the  urn  or  columbarium — was  not  this  a  better 
and  seemlier  thing  than  a  slow-rotting  corpse  in  a 
grave?  They  had  a  poor  notion  of  the  Hereafter, 
perhaps,  but  they  never  cursed  the  living  present 
with  such  a  Nightmare  conception  as  the  danse 
macabre — that  crowning  horror  of  Christian  ne- 
crology. 

Yes,  cremation  will  come,  though  the  ancient 
profitable  Pact  of  parson  and  undertaker  forbids, 
and  will  hold  a  long  time  yet,  Reason  and  Human- 
ity to  the  contrary  notwithstanding.  For  the  vested 
property  interest  in  the  Grave  as  we  Know  It  is  even 
wider  and  deeper  than  we  are  apt  to  think.  Nay, 
Death  and  Life  are  here  in  a  strange  partnership, 
and  to  rescue  the  dead  from  the  Grave  of  Pollu- 
tion is  to  take  their  living  from  many  people, — or 
so  we  shall  be  told.  It  is  the  old  cry  of  the  enraged 
silversmiths  and  idol-sellers — "Great  is  Diana  of  the 
Ephesians!" 

I  refer,  of  course,  to  the  several  Mortuary  Indus- 
tries, under  the  implied  patronage  of  the  Church : — 
the  manufacturers  of  coffins  (various),  of  the  metal- 


398       AT   THE   SIGN   OF   THE   VAN 

lie  horrors,  of  the  gold,  silver  (sterling  or  oxidized) 
and  aluminum  bar  handles,  of  silver  coffin  plates, 
etc. ;  as  well  as  the  mortuary  tailors,  the  engravers, 
dealers  in  undertakers'  supplies,  etc.,  not  leaving  out 
the  deep  concern  of  the  livery  interest.  Here  is  an 
army  in  opposition  that  will  not  be  swept  away  in  a 
day,  and  here  of  a  truth  are  many  who  feed  upon 
the  living  in  the  name  of  the  dead.  I  do  not  care 
to  make  you  weep  or  I  might  glance  at  the  sacrifices 
that  the  decent  poor  are  called  upon  to  make  in  def- 
erence to  a  pompous  and  barren  conventionality: — 
these  are  often  of  a  nature  to  trouble  the  dead  in 
their  resting  graves.  For  many  a  poor  man  who 
had  lived  frugally  is,  out  of  regard  to  the  neighbors, 
buried  beyond  his  means! 

Most  formidable  of  all  is  the  opposition  of  the 
Church  itself,  which  holds  to  a  literal  resurrection 
of  the  flesh  and  has  all  manner  of  dogmatic  and 
practical  reasons  for  disliking  the  ancient  pagan 
practice  of  cremation  or  incineration.  Certainly  we 
touch  here  a  sentiment  consecrated  by  countless  gen- 
erations and  worthy  of  all  respect.  But  the  supreme 
consideration  and  that  which  must  prevail  finally 
in  settling  the  question  is  this : — the  earth  is  for  the 
living,  not  the  dead!  Not  even  their  selfish  venera- 
tion for  the  Family  Plot  (with  its  tidy  arrangements 
for  the  Great  Awakening)  will  blind  men  perma- 
nently to  the  wicked  impiety  of  building  a  Paradise 
for  the  dead  and  near  by  (as  in  many  a  city)  a 


ASHES   TO   ASHES  399 

Hell  for  the  living!  Sooner  or  later,  the  wise 
Church  may  not  deny,  all  graves  and  cemeteries,  be 
they  the  guarded  Mausoleums  of  Kings,  are  aban- 
doned and  life  resumes  what  death  so  long  occupied. 

They  say  the  lion  and  the  lizard  keep 
The  courts  where  Jamshyd  gloried  and  drank  deep; 
And  Bahram,  that  great  hunter — the  wild  ass 
Stamps  o'er  his  head,  but  cannot  break  his  sleep. 

Cremation  approves  itself  by  a  hundred  reasons 
of  sanity,  economy,  public  health,  cleanliness,  de- 
cency and  humanity.  It  is  more  and  more  in  use, 
while  the  foolish  prejudice  against  it  weakens  daily: 
in  the  next  generation  this  will  have  largely  died  out. 
The  Grave  as  We  Know  It  is  doomed,  and  to  those 
objecting  religious  reasons  for  its  preservation  let 
this  answer  be  made:  If  there  shall  be  a  resurrec- 
tion of  the  body,  why  should  anyone  lose  his  part  in 
it  for  having  gone  the  way  of  fire? — is  not  our  God 
a  God  of  power? 


IX 

THE     NEW     CHRIST 

CHRISTMAS  makes  us  all  of  one  religion. 
It  gives  us  the  Christ  in  whom  all  or  nearly 
all  of  us  believe — the   Christ  to   whom 
more  or  less  consciously  we  are  in  the  habit  of  re- 
ferring our  good  impulses;  the  Christ  that  stands 
for  so  many  of  us  in  the  place  of  conscience. 

To  be  sure,  this  is  not  the  Christ  of  the  fierce 
old  theology,  the  Christ  of  Calvinism  and  reproba- 
tion and  all  that  lurid  concept  of  religion  which  so 
long  oppressed  the  world  like  a  nightmare.  Not 
the  Christ  of  the  Inquisition  in  whose  name  the  san 
benito  was  prepared  and  the  fires  of  death  kindled 
for  those  who  dared  to  doubt  the  unknowable.  Not 
the  Christ  of  Laud  or  Cranmer,  nor  the  Christ  of 
the  Scottish  Councils,  whose  sweet  emblems  were 
the  stake,  the  boot,  the  thumb-screws  and  the  rack. 
Not  the  Christ  who  cast  a  sword  into  the  world, 
asserting  it  as  his  peculiar  privilege  to  set  brother 
against  brother  through  many  centuries  of  blood 
and  strife.  Not  the  Christ  of  a  Redemption  con- 
ditioned upon  the  damnableness  of  humanity, — the 
Creator's  own  handiwork! — and  which  the  human 
reason  is  asked  to  take  on  trust  as  a  "mystery." 

400 


THE    NEW    CHRIST  401 

Not  the  Christ  of  ages  of  delirium  and  hallucination 
— the  Christ  of  trances,  dreams  and  ecstasies — the 
Christ  of  a  whole  vanished  world  of  mummery  and 
madness. 

With  these  several  Christs  that  have  made  such 
woeful  history  the  better  part  of  the  world  is  well 
done — thank  God  that  we  may  now  add,  done  for- 
ever! The  pulpits  know  it,  even  though  they  will 
not  confess  the  whole  truth — but  the  pews  give  their 
silent  testimony.  Infallibility  knows  it  and  with 
unerring  wisdom  preaches  the  new  Christ  of  peace, 
and  mercy,  and  humanity,  whom  it  was  so  long  con- 
venient to  forget.  The  punitive  Christ  who  sought 
to  avenge  his  sufferings  upon  mankind  has  given 
place  to  the  Christ  of  love  and  joy.  Note  it  well, 
for  this  is  the  greatest  change  which  our  time  has 
seen  or  shall  see. 

The  old  cruel  theology  is  dead,  sure  enough,  even 
with  that  ancient  and  venerable  Church  whose  proud 
boast  has  always  been  that,  sustained  by  Divine 
guidance  and  authority,  she  has  never  surrendered 
a  line  of  her  tenet  or  dogma.  And  if  not  dead  for- 
mally and  by  express  repudiation, — which  would  be 
too  much  to  ask  of  the  Infallible  Church, — it  is  not 
the  less  dead  in  the  hearts  of  the  priests  and  the 
worshippers.  There  is  no  Promethean  heat  that 
can  relume  these  cold  ashes.  .  .  . 

All  this  is  due  to  the  advance  of  the  human  spirit. 
Theology  is  dead,  but  the  new  Christ  lives  and  be- 


402      AT  THE   SIGN   OF   THE   VAN 

longs  to  humanity  rather  than  to  the  churches.  In 
other  words,  the  human  spirit,  which  lives  by  and  for 
the  Ideal,  has  extracted  from  the  legend  of  its  great- 
est Martyr  such  elements  as  are  necessary  for  its 
future  progress.  The  rest  it  leaves  in  the  hands  of 
the  priests.  But,  strange  to  say,  the  priests  who  so 
long  jealously  claimed  the  whole  legend,  guarding 
it  with  fire  and  sword,  and  surrounding  it  with  both 
earthly  and  infernal  penalties, — the  priests  them- 
selves are  not  half  content  with  the  old  Christ,  and, 
but  for  the  pride  of  caste,  they  would  surely  re- 
nounce him.  Especially  as  there  is  less  and  less 
profit  in  upholding  a  system  of  man-made  theology 
which  abolishes  the  human  reason,  and  is  justified 
only  by  a  Scheme  of  Redemption  that  impeaches  the 
Source  of  all  wisdom  and  all  justice. 

Kindness  is  the  one  thing  that  will  redeem  the 
world,  and  it  never  was  a  conspicuous  feature  of  the 
old  theology.  Let  it  once  be  seen  and  demonstrated 
what  the  spirit  of  human  kindness  can  do  in  this 
world,  and  we  shall  not  be  greatly  concerned  as  to 
the  awards  of  the  next.  No  doubt  it  is  for  this 
very  reason  that  the  more  enlightened  part  of  the 
human  race  has  been  so  long  afflicted  with  a  religion 
of  misery — the  churches  naturally  would  not  dis- 
count their  own  promissory  notes  upon  Heaven. 

I  will  not  say  that  the  religion  whose  cry  in  the 
hour  of  its  might  was  "Compel  them  to  enter  in  I" 
was  a  curse  in  the  world,  for  even  in  its  worst 


THE    NEW    CHRIST  403 

periods  it  consoled,  as  well  as  persecuted,  the  just 
and  the  faithful.  But  I  must  rejoice  to  see  the  age- 
long duel  near  an  end  and  the  human  spirit  achiev- 
ing a  bloodless  victory  at  last.  Not  the  least  fruit 
of  this  victory  will  be  the  vindication  of  human 
nature  and  the  restoration  of  its  honor  and  dignity. 
More  and  more  will  this  be  seen  when  the  degrad- 
ing idea  of  a  Heaven  to  be  purchased  by  fawning 
and  wheedling  and  all  manner  of  spiritual  abase- 
ment shall  have  passed  away. 

Kindness  is  the  word  for  the  Christmas  of  the 
new  spirit — for  the  world  has  outgrown  that  species 
of  Christianity  which,  in  the  words  of  Swift,  made 
people  hate  instead  of  love  one  another.  Not  the 
selfish  kindness  which  regards  only  a  narrow  circle, 
but  the  true  Christian  kindness  which  goes  out  to 
the  poor  and  the  stranger,  and  which  is  boundless 
as  charity  itself. 

Let  us,  every  one,  contribute  to  make  of  Christ- 
mas a  grand  festival  of  love  and  humanity;  forgiv- 
ing without  hypocritical  reservation  those  who  have 
wronged  or  injured  us,  if  they  persist  not  in  evil; 
succoring  the  afflicted,  helping  the  needy,  turning 
away  from  no  office  or  duty  that  can  add  to  the 
measure  of  human  happiness.  So  shall  we  give  the 
lie  to  that  old  conception  of  a  fallen  and  all  but  irre- 
deemable humanity;  so  shall  we  signalize  the  advent 
of  the  new  Christ,  with  the  onward  and  upward 
march  of  the  human  spirit! 


TRIPOLI 

-Anno  Chris ti  1912 

FOR  days  a  white-clad  figure  had  dogged  the 
Italian  army  of  invasion,  without  challeng- 
ing special  notice.  There  were  friendly 
Arabs  unmolested  at  all  times,  and  it  may  well  have 
been  confounded  with  them.  At  a  first  glance  there 
was  nothing  to  distinguish  it  from  the  run  of  these, 
but,  looked  at  more  attentively,  one  divined  behind 
veil  and  burnoose  a  presence  of  strange  majesty. 
The  face,  nobly  modeled,  was  lighter  in  hue  than 
such  as  are  exposed  to  the  African  sun.  About  the 
brow  and  head  there  was  a  peculiar  tenderness  and 
majesty  that  seemed  to  call  up  the  idea  of  centuries 
of  adoration.  But,  above  all,  the  eyes  of  this  strange 
man  drew  the  gaze  of  the  onlooker — eyes  of  dark 
and  wonderful  brilliancy,  filled  now  with  the  light  of 
unspeakable  pity  and  sorrow. 

Who  was  this  Unknown,  whence  came  he,  and 
what  business  had  he  there  amid  slaughter  and  ra- 
pine, desolation  and  death?  He  seemed  not  to  hold 
speech  with  any  man,  and  the  soldiers,  intent  upon 

404 


TRIPOLI  405 

their  hellish  trade,  were  all  unmindful  of  his  pres- 
ence. 

They  had  enough  to  do  without  heeding  him,  and 
one  felt  that  it  was  only  their  blind,  unseeing  rage 
which  exempted  him  from  the  bloody  fate  of  so 
many.  It  was  plain  that  they  did  not  see  him,  else 
the  spectacle  of  this  Unknown  sorrowing  and  wring- 
ing his  hands  over  their  awful  deeds  would  have 
challenged  a  swift  vengeance. 

At  night  he  wandered  about  the  beleaguered  city, 
going  from  one  outpost  to  another,  heedless  of  the 
sentinel's  call.  Often  he  was  fired  at,  mistaken  for 
an  Arab  spy,  and  the  soldier,  running  forward  to 
claim  his  quarry,  found — nothing!  Soon  a  rumor 
spread  of  a  mysterious,  white-clad  Figure  that  men- 
aced the  camps  of  the  invader.  Many  soldiers  de- 
clared that  they  had  heard  it  wailing  and  lamenting 
in  a  strange  tongue — a  tongue  that  was  spoken  by 
none  in  Tripoli.  The  Arabs  whispered  among  them- 
selves that  it  was  a  prophet  from  the  desert  sent  to 
proclaim  a  Holy  War  of  God's  people  against  the 
Italian  dogs.  And  they  dissembled  their  satisfac- 
tion in  their  beards — their  long  glossy  beards,  well 
kept  with  savory  unguents,  which  the  accursed 
Giaour,  they  well  knew,  would  not  hesitate  to  tear 
aside  with  rude  hands,  in  order  to  cut  their  throats. 
There  were  still  others  who  averred  that  the  strange 
Visitant  portended  the  coming  of  the  Plague;  and 
of  a  truth  the  Plague  did  come,  seizing  with  spectral 


406       AT  THE   SIGN   OF  THE   VAN 

hands  and  dragging  down  to  death  many  of  those 
who  had  come  to  do  murder  in  the  land. 

Still  the  White  Figure  flitted  about  the  city  and 
the  camp,  unheeded  by  day  but  a  source  of  inde- 
scribable fear  and  menace  by  night.  Passing 
strange  and  terrible  were  the  sights  It  looked  upon 
and  over  which  It  raised  imprecating  hands. 

It  saw  Lust  and  Murder  loosed  against  a  trem- 
bling, helpless  population  of  old  and  young,  the 
sick  and  the  unfit,  poor  derelicts  in  the  path  of  War. 

It  saw  scattered  heaps  of  such  dead  as  these  lying 
in  a  terrible  confusion  and  clinging  one  to  another 
in  the  grim  security  of  death;  here  the  tiny  corpse 
of  a  child,  with  terror  stamped  on  its  innocent  face, 
there  a  white-haired  old  man  with  one  arm  flung 
protectingly  around  a  young  girl  in  whose  staring 
eyes  might  be  read  the  horror  of  her  fate. 

It  saw  innocence  brutally  violated  and  the  life 
then  torn  from  the  outraged  body. 

It  saw  little  children  slaughtered  and  their  bodies 
tossed  alongside  their  murdered  parents. 

It  looked  upon  that  most  awful  and  accusing  sight 
under  heaven — the  hearth-fire  quenched  in  blood 
and  mute  forms  of  death  where  joyous  life  had 
lately  been. 

It  saw  blood  shed  in  torrents  solely  from  wanton- 
ness and  the  useless  cruelty  of  War. 

It  saw  the  cowardly  give  themselves  courage  by 
murdering  the  defenceless. 


TRIPOLI  407 

It  saw  men  wearing  the  uniform  of  Christ  refuse 
the  common  cares  of  humanity  to  the  perishing  vic- 
tims of  savagery  and  greed — people  who  had  done 
no  wrong  save  to  dwell  in  the  land  where  they  were 
born.  It  saw  this,  mindful  of  the  words — "A  cup 
of  water  given  in  My  name!" 

It  beheld  infamies  which  the  most  hardened  sol- 
dier will  not  confess  to  his  kind. 

It  saw  every  imaginable  horror  which  in  so-called 
Civilized  War  effaces  the  kinship  of  humanity  and 

turns  man  into  a  fiend. 

***** 

If  it  was  indeed  thou,  O  Christ,  that  didst  look 
upon  these  horrors  done  in  thy  name,  tell  us  of 
what  avail  is  thy  Gospel  of  Peace  since,  with  priestly 
warrant,  men  continue  to  wrest  from  it  a  sanction 
for  their  crimes. 

We  have  been  very  patient  and  have  still  be- 
lieved in  Thee,  even  though  Thou  didst  not  return 
to  us,  according  to  thy  word  pledged  to  the  first 
generation. 

Teach  us,  dear  Christ,  how  we  may  henceforth 
cleanse  ourselves  from  such  blood-guiltiness  as  Thou 
didst  shuddering  look  upon  in  Tripoli. 

Rebuke  the  nations  miscalled  Christian  that  pre- 
tend to  honor  thy  Cross,  yet  armed  to  the  teeth 
watch  each  other  like  sleepless  enemies,  ready  to 
destroy  each  other,  even  in  thy  name! 


408       AT  THE  SIGN   OF  THE  VAN 

Unsay  once  and  forever  those  terrible  words 
which  have  stained  thy  Evangel  with  blood  down 
the  long  lapse  of  centuries — "I  came  not  to  send 
peace  but  a  swprdl" 


XI 

DE     PROFUNDIS 

INDEED,   Madame,   they  who   accuse  me  of 
impiety  have  but  little  skill  in  reading  the 
heart.    They  are  also  very  ignorant  of  ethnol- 
ogy or  the  science  of  races,  and  they  certainly  lack 
acquaintance  with  the  charming  works  of  M.  Ernest 
Renan.     Else  they  would  know  that  it  is  quite  im- 
possible to  imagine  a  Celt  without  religion — as  eas- 
ily fancy  a  living  man  without  blood!     Hence  La 
Vendee;  hence  Ireland;  hence  much  lamentable  and 
glorious  history. 

"You  must  not  laugh  at  us  Celts,"  said  our  great 
kinsman  Renan.  "We  shall  never  build  a  Parthe- 
non, for  we  have  not  the  marble.  But  ours  is  the 
lore  of  Macbeth's  witches.  We  bury  our  hands 
deep  in  the  entrails  of  a  man  and  withdraw  them 
full  of  the  secrets  of  infinity!" 

To  the  true  Celt  the  supernatural  offers  no  diffi- 
culty,— nay,  it  is  his  natural!  To  him  is  given  in 
its  fulness  what  Renan  names,  in  true  Celtic  idiom, 
the  vision  of  the  invisible  world.  He  is  the  eternal 
druid  collecting  oracles  from  tree  and  cloud  and 

409 


4io 

stream;  from  whispering  wind  and  eddying  pool; 
seeing  a  whole  mystic,  pregnant  world  where  to  the 
ungifted  sense  there  is  nothing.  He  prefers  a  mir- 
acle to  a  fact — a  dream  to  a  demonstration — a 
vision  to  a  scientific  exegesis.  Hence  his  inviolable 
attachment  to  the  Christian  Faith:  he  loves  it  be- 
cause of  its  mysteries;  because  of  his  "invincible 
need  of  illusion." 

The  three-leaved  shamrock  is  for  him  to-day,  as 
it  was  for  the  rude  chieftains  who  gathered  about 
Patrick  on  Tara's  hill,  a  sufficient  explanation  of 
the  Trinity.  Here  was  a  nation  of  "babes  and 
sucklings"  made  to  the  hand  of  the  Apostle.  What 
wonder  that  the  Irish  have  always  deemed  them- 
selves the  Chosen  People  of  the  New  Dispensation? 
For  the  vein  of  skepticism  is  rarely  found  in  the 
blood  of  the  Celt — he  may  doubt  the  real  but  never 
the  unreal.  And  you  never  find  him  clamoring  for 
a  "rationalized  religion."  He  accepts  all  or  nothing. 

Need  I  say,  Madame,  to  you  whom  I  could  not 
deceive  even  were  such  my  wish,  that  my  heart  is 
wholly  Celtic  and  always  a  traitor  to  my  head — alas  I 
how  came  I  by  this  changeling  head  that  has  made 
me  so  much  trouble?  .  .  .  Yes,  in  this  heart  of 
mine  the  entire  spiritual  drama  of  my  race  is  con- 
stantly enacting.  Though  I  confess  myself  a  skep- 
tic and  a  sinner,  dear  Lady,  I  am  not  the  less 
obliged  to  keep  company  with  the  believers  and 
the  saints.  For  they  pass  through  my  heart  in 


DE    PROFUNDIS  411 

endless  procession,  like  figures  in  some  quaint  old 
Missal,  these  vanished  generations  of  my  race  and 
my  blood;  praying,  weeping,  rejoicing,  sorrowing; 
sinning,  repenting,  expiating;  now  exultant  with  the 
facile  joy  of  the  Celt,  and  now  abandoned  to  his  no 
less  facile  despair;  now  accusing  themselves  with 
wild  imprecations,  and  anon  bowing  heads  meekly 
with  pale  hands  folded  on  breasts  worthy  to  receive 
their  Lord;  crying  comfort  and  courage  one  to  an- 
other as  they  point  the  rugged  way  toward  a  mighty 
Crucifix  on  high,  the  summit  of  their  endeavor;  and 
often,  alas,  calling  to  me.  Ah,  my  Lady,  that  is 
hardest  of  all  to  bear, — those  voices  of  the  dead 
that  warn  and  entreat,  those  hands  of  the  dead  that 
urge  and  beseech.  But  he  who  entertains  such 
guests  must  pay  a  price,  and  the  blood  of  the  Celt 
is  charged  with  its  own  mystical  penalty.  .  .  . 

These  thoughts  have  been  much  with  me, 
Madame,  while  passing  some  quiet  days  at  a  health 
resort  conducted  by  an  order  of  Bavarian  nuns  in 
the  hills  of  New  Jersey.  They  are  called  the  Sis- 
ters of  the  Sorrowful  Mother — Sisters  of  the  Toil- 
some Mother  would  perhaps  more  accurately  de- 
scribe them.  For  they  are  not  sorrowful,  at  least 
in  outward  seeming,  and  their  industry  surpasses 
anything  that  I  have  ever  seen  among  religieuses. 
To  the  vows  of  chastity,  poverty,  obedience  they 
have  added  a  still  more  arduous  one — labor.  Liter- 


4i2      AT  THE   SIGN   OF   THE   VAN 

ally  they  exemplify  in  their  toilsome  days,  as  like 
one  another  as  the  beads  of  a  rosary,  that  to  labor 
is  to  pray — laborare  est  orare. 

Certainly  the  accusation  of  "holy  sloth"  does  not 
lie  against  these  wise  and  humble  women,  sanctified 
equally  by  work  and  prayer.  If  all  religious  orders 
were  like  this  I  do  not  see  how  a  public  prejudice 
could  be  aroused  against  them,  as  recently  in  France 
and  Spain.  From  five  in  the  morning  until  nine  at 
night  they  are  constantly  working — not  merely  fuss- 
ing or  appearing  busy.  They  watch  over  the  com- 
fort of  their  fifty  guests — the  majority  of  these 
women,  too — with  a  care  and  zeal  that  put  every 
normal  person  in  an  apologetic  frame  of  mind. 
You  leave  your  room  for  a  few  minutes  and  return- 
ing find  that  something  has  been  done  in  your  ab- 
sence— a  slight  but  perceptible  addition  to  your  com- 
fort or  satisfaction.  One  has  the  novel  and  agree- 
able sense  of  being  constantly  yet  not  obstrusively 
looked  after.  It  is  a  little  like  the  service  of  angels, 
unseen;  for,  however  vigilant  you  may  be,  scarce  will 
you  surprise  the  flitting  of  a  black  robe  from  the 
just  visited  chamber.  One  feels  also  that  one  has 
never  seen  even  a  passable  substitute  for  the  nuns' 
idea  of  cleanliness. 

All  this  ministration  is  swift,  silent,  effective,  an 
endless  source  of  wonder  to  the  city  visitor  used  to 
the  careless  functions  of  the  Housemaids'  Union 
and  the  strong-armed  attentions  of  the  Waiters' 


DE    PROFUNDIS  413 

Bund.  I  almost  shouted  for  joy  when  I  first  saw 
the  nuns  serve  in  the  dining  room, — voiceless,  deft, 
intuitive, — and  I  said  to  myself,  "Surely  this  is  wait- 
ing to  the  glory  of  God!" 

I  agree,  Madame,  that  there  is  a  strong  racial 
reason  for  the  laborious  virtues  of  this  little  com- 
munity. The  Bavarians  are  workers  first  and 
spouses  of  Christ  afterward;  also  these  women  came 
mostly  from  the  peasant  class  and  were  early  inured 
to  rough  labor.  But  this  trait  gains  the  highest 
value  where  the  religious  motive  coincides  with  the 
racial  disposition.  The  union  of  both  has  wrought 
visible  wonders  here  since  fifteen  years  ago  a  worthy 
priest  and  a  half  dozen  sisters  started  the  undertak- 
ing, with  scarce  any  capital,  trusting  in  their  purpose 
to  serve  God  and  humanity.  To-day  the  place  is 
over  two  hundred  acres  in  extent,  with  every  natu- 
ral beauty  that  heart  could  desire  (I  should  like  you 
to  see  the  great  German  linden  and  the  sentinel 
pines  that  guard  this  conventual  retreat)  ;  wood  and 
pasture  and  meadow,  and  (as  Robert  Louis  wished) 
a  river  beside  the  door;  add  a  landscape  of  which 
the  eye  never  wearies  and  surrounding  all  a  horizon 
of  misty  hills.  There  is  a  large  and  perfectly 
equipped  sanitarium,  with  a  model  farm,  stables, 
dairy,  etc.  The  table  witnesses  the  excellent  gar- 
dening and  farming  abilities  of  the  sisters,  being  al- 
most exclusively  supplied  with  their  own  produce. 

Now  the  point  I  wish  to  make  to  the  glory  of 


4H      AT  THE   SIGN   OF  THE   VAN 

your  sex,  Madame,  is  that  all  this  great  undertaking, 
— a  large  and  difficult  business,  if  you  please, — has 
been  founded,  built  up  and  carried  to  success  by 
women;  and  all  the  actual  work  in  the  place,  save 
the  heaviest  labors  of  the  farm,  is  done  by  their 
hands.  Hundreds  have  been  cured  of  serious  ail- 
ments here,  and,  more  important  still,  other  hun- 
dreds, of  varying  creeds,  have  received  here  an  im- 
pulse toward  human  love,  tolerance  and  charity 
which  has  blessed  and  sweetened  their  lives,  by 
whatever  name  you  may  call  it.  ... 

My  mind  was  busy  with  such  thoughts,  Madame, 
when,  coming  back  at  dusk  last  evening  from  a  stroll 
to  the  nearest  village,  I  stopped  suddenly  in  the  path 
leading  to  the  house,  arrested  by  the  sound  of  sing- 
ing. It  was  the  Sisters  holding  May  devotion  in 
their  little  chapel.  Heavenly  sweet  their  pure 
voices  rose  in  the  stillness  and  odorous  beauty  of 
the  night. 

Ave  Maria,  gratia  plena:  Dominus  tecum: 
Benedicta  tu  in  mulieribus . 

What  was  it  in  the  strain  that  called  the  tears  to 
my  eyes  and  kept  me  standing  there  an  awed  list- 
ener? Surely  not  the  familiar  Latin  words,  though 
'tis  always  a  solemn  thought  how  many  generations 
have  heard  and  repeated  them  in  their  changeless 
faith;  nor  the  music,  beautiful  as  it  was  with  its 


DE    PROFUNDIS  415 

power  to  evoke  early  and  precious  memories.  Both 
indeed  helped  to  work  the  charm,  but  chiefly  I  was 
smitten  by  the  thought  of  the  sacrifice  these  devoted 
women  were  making.  Of  the  strong  claims  of  hu- 
man love,  the  love  of  husband  and  little  children, 
which  they  had  put  aside  and  foregone;  yet  among 
them  are  pale  sweet  faces  and  eyes  that  lover  or 
husband  or  child  might  well  adore.  Of  the  poig- 
nant sting  of  that  great  renunciation  which  they 
must  sometimes  feel,  as  now  in  this  warm  and 
scented  night,  with  Nature  the  eternal  enchantress 
weaving  her  spells  about  them.  Of  the  long  via 
cruets  they  have  chosen  for  their  earthly  portion, 
the  many  years  of  hard,  unremitting  labor,  dulling 
brain  and  heart  with  its  servile  monotony,  unpaid 
too  save  for  merely  necessary  food,  clothing  and 
shelter,  which  must  stretch  between  them  and  the 
grave  to  which  they  are  bound  to  look  forward  as 
their  victory  and  guerdon. 

In  this  wise  I  thought,  and  so  thinking  my  heart 
was  filled  with  grief  at  the  pity  of  it  all,  and  the 
tears  came.  But  again  the  thrilling  sweet  voices 
rose  on  the  hushed  air,  and  now  they  seemed  to 
rebuke  me  for  my  vain  regret.  There  came  now 
upon  me  the  awe  that  one  must  feel  in  the  presence 
of  the  Devoted.  To  assert  the  cruelty  and  useless- 
ness  of  such  a  sacr.'*ice  is  to  accuse  the  Divine,  I 
thought.  And  involuntarily  I  took  off  my  hat  to  a 
Faith  which  justifies  this  supreme  renunciation  and 


4i 6      AT  THE   SIGN   OF  THE   VAN 

makes  the  long  ages  but  as  a  night  from  which  the 
shadows  flee  away.  And  as  this  thought  came  to 
me  the  voices  of  the  nuns  swelled  to  a  choral  chant 
of  jubilant  harmony. 

Gloria  Patri  et  Filio  et  Spiritui  Sancto. 
Sicut  erat  in  principio,  et  nunc  et  semper, 
Et  in  sacula  saculorum.    Alleluia! 

Work  and  prayer  and  denial  of  self,  if  these  do 
not  lead  to  Heaven,  I  said,  who  shall  point  the 
way?  .  .  . 

Pardon,  Madame,  you  turn  your  face  away  as  if 
to  hide  a  smile  from  him  who  too  often  seems  a 
scoffer.  Nay,  by  the  rood!  but  you  are  weeping. 
Ah,  then,  let  us  bury  the  incorrigible  Celt  once  more, 
deep  down  in  our  bosom. 


XII 


Philosophy  in  Little 


IT  is  asserted  that  from  time  to  time  a  man 
appears  on  this  earth  who  thinks  only  of  The 
One  Woman,  and  never  knows  or  desires  an- 
other during  his  earthly  pilgrimage.  I  find  this  easy 
to  believe  because  of  my  certain  knowledge  of  an- 
other type  of  man  who  remains  true  to  his  marital 
vows,  yet  is  always  promising  himself  delicious  for- 
bidden pleasures, — and  never  has  the  courage,  or, 
as  the  French  say,  the  enterprise,  to  go  after  them. 
However,  there  are  two  sides  to  every  account,  and 
this  virtuous  man's  life  is  made  interesting  and 
perilously  delightful  by  his  mental  attitude — larks 
have  been  known  to  fall  from  the  sky! 

II 

After  a  long  stern  chase  I  am  convinced  that  the 
ingredients  of  happiness  are  very  few  and  simple. 

417 


4i  8      AT  THE   SIGN   OF  THE  VAN 

The  trouble  with  most  of  us  is  that  we  think  we 
want  too  many  things  and  so  miss  our  true  aim  in 
the  effort  to  obtain  them.  It  is  better  to  put  beauty 
in  your  life  than  money  in  your  purse.  Gilt-edged 
stocks  will  not  compensate  you  for  the  poverty  of 
the  mind.  A  city  mansion  and  a  country  house,  the 
seductions  of  society  and  the  vain  pursuit  of  the 
anise-seed  bag,  will  not  make  up  to  you  for  a  dearth 
of  soul-life.  Cut  out  the  superfluities — and  begin 
to  livel 


III 


Truly  saith  the  Scripture  a  man's  worst  foes  are 
those  of  his  own  household.  For  they  are  the  foes 
whom  he  cannot  meet  in  fair  combat,  whose  blind 
rage  permits  of  no  justice,  whose  hatred  is  un- 
quenched  even  by  the  grave. 


IV 


The  little  things,  the  little  things! — it  is  upon 
these  that  the  great  issues  wait.  Had  Napoleon  at- 
tended to  the  trifling  matter  of  his  digestion,  he 
perhaps  never  had  lost  Waterloo  nor  died  of  a 
cancer. 


RULES   OF   THE    ROAD  419 


To  know  your  own  mind — not  such  an  easy  mat- 
ter, by  the  way.  Indeed,  rightly  considered,  one  of 
the  marks  of  uncommon  ability. 

VI 

I  do  not  know  myself  better  than  I  did  ten  years 
ago,  but  at  least  I  know  that  I  do  not  know  myself 
better — which  is  something  of  a  gain. 


VII 


Compensation  is  the  master  law  of  life.  If  you 
would  take,  what  will  you  give?  Great  is  that  man 
who  can  bargain  wisely  with  the  fates. 

VIII 

The  friendship  of  the  young  is  unstable — of  the 
old  selfish  and  reluctant.  Be  good  to  thyself  I 


IX 


A  man's  enemies  like  to  believe  that  he  is  far 
worse  than  his  work  would  show  him;  his  friends 


420      AT  THE   SIGN   OF  THE   VAN 

that  he  is  about  half  as  good;  the  few  who  love  him, 
that  he  is  a  little  better. 


X 


It  is  very  disagreeable  to  meet  the  Furies,  but 
until  one  has  done  so  one  has  been  only  jesting  with 
life. 

XI 

Life  is  made  up  of  meetings  and  partings.     In, 
the  long  run  every  man  goes  his  road  alone. 

XII 

Courage  is  the  high  road  to  health ;  Fear  the  turn- 
stile to  sickness. 

XIII 

There  is  a  freemasonry  of  small  souls  in  the  world 
and  it  is  much  larger  and  more  influential  than  the 
fellowship  of  noble  spirits. 

XIV 

That  /  that  ever  watches  the  other  7,  whose  duty 
it  is  to  praise,  blame,  criticize,  condemn,  applaud, 
rebuke,  curse  or  bless — what  is  it? 


RULES    OF   THE    ROAD  421 


It  matters  not  how  many  years  but  how  fully  and 
to  what  purpose  you  have  lived.  Some  live  to  be 
very  old  and  in  the  end  are  driven  starving  from 
the  Banquet  of  Life. 

XVI 

In  Actaeon  torn  by  Diana's  hands  the  wise  Greeks 
symbolized  the  fate  that  attends  the  unwary  pursuit 
of  the  Ideal.  Life  is  most  cruel  to  those  who  ap- 
proach it  from  dreams. 

XVII 

The  strength  of  the  weak  is  often  more  to  be 
feared  than  the  utmost  effort  of  the  strong. 

XVIII 

The  best  and  most  consoling  proof  of  God  is 
when  you  find  Him  behind  that  veil  where  you 
sought  the  Deadly  Sin. 

XIX 

What  is  so  pleasant  as  to  waken  from  a  troubled 
dream  to  find  a  beloved  and  cheerful  face  smiling 


422       AT  THE   SIGN   OF   THE   VAN 

upon  you?     I  like  to  fancy  that  such  will  be  our 
awakening  from  Life  unto  Death. 

XX 

The  gods  load  the  dice  against  those  who  cheat 
in  friendship  and  in  love. 

XXI 

Tell  your  friend  everything — but  not  more  than 
he  tells  you! 

XXII 

Divination  of  character  is  the  lamp  of  life.    God 
help  you  if  you  must  make  your  way  without  it. 

XXIII 

Fulfil  yourself — that  is  the  whole  of  life. 


AFTER  all,  one  writes  for  only  a  few  persons. 
This  claiming  of  an  audience,  this  harass- 
ing need  to  make  some  one  listen  to  you, 
this  buttonholing  of  people  whom  you  don't  know 
and  to  whom  you  bring  so  small  warrant,  seems  a 
kind  of  highway  insolence  which  the  world  has  a 
right  to  resent.  And  in  its  best  and  hopefullest  aspect 
what  is  it?  The  very  effort  of  writing  for  the  public 
is  merely  the  sending  of  your  filament  of  thought 
out,  out  beyond  your  ken,  and  then  waiting  with 
fearful  heart  to  learn  perhaps,  through  some  cheery 
message  from  the  void,  that  it  has  caught  fast  some- 
where and  all  is  well.  And  I  note  also  that  one  such 
acceptance  is  worth  many  rejections — it  is  enough 
that  our  own  know  us  and  receive  us,  no  matter  how 
few.  But  in  the  quest  of  these  unknown  though  kin- 
dred spirits,  these  kindly  and  related  intelligences, 
one  often  goes  far  afield  and  meets  with  many  a  bit- 
ter repulse.  Ah  me!  the  children  of  light  are  few 
indeed  compared  to  the  sons  of  darkness. 

423 


424      AT  THE   SIGN   OF   THE   VAN 


II 


There  is  something  Gothic  in  the  genius  of  Victor 
Hugo, — something  inchoate  and  monstrous  at  once 
sublime,  extravagant  and  lawless,  like  the  concep- 
tions of  the  Northern  builders.  The  gargoyle  is  a 
symbol  of  his  talent  and  his  method,  alike  puerile 
and  gigantesque.  Heine,  it  will  be  recalled,  likened 
him  to  his  own  Quasimodo,  saying  that  his  genius 
had  a  hump!  A  great  poet  and  dreamer,  but  not 
strictly  a  creative  artist — the  characters  of  Victor 
Hugo  are  merely  extensions  of  his  own  ego.  This 
is  true  of  the  supreme  poets  generally  (though 
Shakespeare  is  an  exception)  to  whom  ideas  are 
more  important  than  life — words  more  essential 
than  things. 

Ill 

Within  his  limits  Charles  Lamb  was  one  of  the 
greatest  and  sanest  of  critics.  In  his  knowledge  and 
appreciation  of  Shakespeare,  as  well  as  other  old 
English  dramatic  writers,  and  in  his  literary  expres- 
sion so  cunningly  packed  with  the  rarest  values  for 
mind  and  ear,  it  is  doubtful  if  he  has  ever  had  an 
equal.  Yet  even  this  wise  and  gifted  man  of  letters 
could  not,  when  influenced  by  prejudice,  be  just  to 
a  contemporary.  He  would  never  admit  the  great- 


THE    QUESTION    OF   ART         425 

ness  of  Byron — rarely  mentions  him  in  his  letters 
and  always  with  disparagement;  while  of  Shelley's 
poetry  he  had  a  very  poor  opinion. 


iv: 


Literature  that  endures  is  never  produced  by  men 
of  great  practical  shrewdness  and  worldly  wisdom, 
masters  of  the  Main  Chance:  it  asks  a  spiritual 
detachment  which  leaves  the  writer  naked  to  the 
world.  "If  you  aim  to  excel  at  intrigue,"  said 
Voltaire  (an  excellent  judge),  "you  will  fall  off  in 
literary  power."  And  Renan  said:  "I  think  like  a 
man  and  act  like  a  child."  Business  men  as  a  rule 
despise  the  literary  character — and,  by  the  way, 
since  the  Babylonian  Captivity,  the  Jews  have  writ- 
ten few  books. 


What  is  so  curious  as  the  private  judgments  of 
literary  men  upon  each  other?  Here's  Meredith,  in 
a  posthumously  published  piece  of  the  cleverest  and 
most  effective  English  that  ever  flowed  from  his 
pen,  scoring  Dickens  as  a  glorified  Cockney  and 
doing  little  better  by  Thackeray.  Was  this  the  old 
man's  bitterness  because  he  could  never  share  their 
great  fame  and  public  favor?  In  some  unconscious 


426       AT   THE   SIGN   OF  THE   VAN 

degree  perhaps  it  was,  but  who  will  question  the 
integrity  of  Meredith? 


VI 


After  reading,  in  a  lately  published  letter,  how 
Thackeray  got  his  broken  nose  at  the  hands  of  a 
young  aristocrat  for  whom  he  fagged  at  public 
school,  one  has  the  secret  of  the  bitterness  of  many 
pages.  Stevenson  says  that  the  blow  from  Rawdon 
Crawley's  fist  on  the  countenance  of  Lord  Steyne 
made  "Vanity  Fair"  a  work  of  art.  So  Thack- 
eray's young  tyrant  and  his  disfiguring  boot-heel 
probably  did  much  to  make  the  future  satirist. 


VII 


Must  the  brain  too  finely  wrought  forever  prey 
upon  and  destroy  itself?  Can  we  not  have  genius 
without  the  straitjacket,  poetry  and  high  thought 
without  the  psychopathic  ward,  the  vision  and  the 
faculty  divine  without  the  grated  cell  and  the  mad- 
man's moon?  Shall  the  Hamlets  forever  go  awry 
while  the  Osrics  and  the  Guildensterns  keep  their 
precious  wits?  Must  life  forever  remain  a  house 
of  safety  for  fools  and  a  dungeon  of  terrors  for  the 
gifted  few?  .  .  . 


THE   QUESTION    OF   ART         427 


VIII 


Neglected  geniuses  may  take  comfort  in  ponder- 
ing the  case  of  Meredith  and  Swinburne.  Both  were 
practically  unknown  to  the  vast  public  which  took 
to  its  bosom  Dickens  and  Longfellow.  Neither  of 
them  ever  made  any  money  to  speak  of  by  his  writ- 
ings, therefore  could  not  have  lived  by  his  pen.  Yet 
each  was  a  master  in  his  literary  province  and  the 
fame  of  both  is  of  the  kind  that  grows  with  the  ages. 
So,  at  least,  the  critics  are  telling  us,  and  it  may  be 
true  since,  as  a  general  rule,  whatever  in  literature 
becomes  vastly  and  immediately  popular  is  rarely 
of  enduring  worth. 


IX 


D'Annunzio's  books  have  been  placed  on  the 
Index.  Fogazzaro's  "Leila"  has  been  condemned 
since  the  death  of  the  author.  Why  does  the  wise 
Church  continue  thus  to  record  its  hatred  of  genius  ? 
Is  it  because  religious  works  and  orthodox  novels 
are  so  commonly  neglected?  But  really  the  Index 
should  have  gone  with  the  Inquisition — it  has  no 
longer  even  an  advertising  value. 


428       AT  THE   SIGN   OF.  THE   VAN 


Only  the  writer  who  is  absolutely  free  can  do  a 
great  work.  There  must  be  no  constraint  of  the 
will,  no  divided  service,  no  allegiance  anywhere  but 
to  the  master  call.  And  all  times  and  seasons  must 
be  his  to  do  or  leave  undone. 


XI 


The  writer  who  works  in  both  prose  and  verse 
has  a  right  hand  and  a  left,  though  he  hates  to 
confess  it,  especially  if  poetry  be  his  left  hand. 
Nature  dislikes  to  double  her  gifts. 


XII 


Nulla  dies  sine  linea  is  not  a  good  motto  for 
everyone.  Better  let  the  mind  lie  fallow  for  periods 
— 'tis  a  rich  soil  indeed  where  there  is  always 
harvest. 

XIII 

Truth  shrinks  to  the  bottom  of  her  well,  and  that 
unseizable  thing  the  writer  labors  to  utter  eludes 
him  in  the  depths  of  his  own  soul. 


THE   QUESTION    OF   ART         429 


XIV 

There  is  hardly  anything  in  books  which  we  may 
not  get  out  of  ourselves  by  right  thinking.  But  few 
have  the  courage  to  think,  even  when  they  have  the 
ability;  and  so  literature  is  really  the  world's  excuse 
for  getting  the  other  fellow  to  do  the  digging. 

XV 

To  be  a  successful  and  admired  humorist  it  is 
necessary  that  you  should  have  many  sad  hours  of 
which  the  world  has  no  profit. 

XVI 

Balzac's  heroes  sleep  with  clenched  fists — an  ex- 
cellent image  of  the  Master's  will  and  purpose. 

XVII 

Every  true  writer  has  that  within  himself  which 
he  will  find  in  no  book:  the  effort  to  express  this  is 
at  once  his  torture  and  his  delight. 

XVIII 

At  a  recent  sale  some  of  Lafcadio  Hearn's  minor 
manuscripts  brought  prices  that  he  would  have  been 


430      AT  THE   SIGN   OF   THE   VAN 

glad  to  get  for  his  books.     Fame  and  Death  are 
profitable  partners. 

XIX 

Three  things  make  the  writer:  style,  idiosyn- 
crasy, passion;  and  the  greatest  of  these  is  passion. 

XX 

To  get  it  written,  to  get  it  spoken,  to  get  it  done, 
at  any  cost  and  at  any  hazard — it  is  for  that  and 
that  only  we  are  here ! 

XXI 

There  have  been  great  poets  but  never  a  great 
satirist  who  died  under  thirty-five. 

XXII 

The  mission  of  the  artist  is  to  perpetuate  himself 
in  his  work — not  death  but  forgetfulness  is  the  ter- 
ror constantly  before  his  eyes. 

XXIII 

The  clearing-house  of  genius  is  full  of  promis- 
sory notes  that  have  gone  to  protest. 


XXIV 

The  artist  whose  brain  is  a  mine  of  gold  still  has 
to  swing  the  pick. 

XXV 

Do  not  envy  the  genius  unless  you  know,  and  are 
willing  to  pay,  his  penalty. 

XXVI 

Genius  should  be  near  allied  to  madness — but  not 
too  near! 

XXVII 

After  all,  literature  is  not  nearly  so  important  a 
thing  as  the  literary-minded  believe,  bless  my  soul  I 
Was  it  not  Stevenson  who  said  that  to  a  plain  man 
a  pipe  of  tobacco  is  rightly  worth  more  than  all  the 
books  in  the  world? 


THE    GREAT    PERHAPS 
I 

NOTICE  that  those  persons  who  are  fond  of 
saying  that  God  has  done  all  for  the  best  have 
excellent  reason  for  believing  that  He  has  done 
the  best  for  them. 


II 


I 


The  notion  of  God  as  a  large  clergyman  in  the 
sky  is  dying  hard.     But  it  is  dying. 


Ill 


The  thinker  is  hated  especially  by  these  two: 
the  man  who  can't  and  the  man  who  won't  think. 


IV, 


The  most  popular  form  of  religion  is  a  kind  of 
spiritual  self-coddling.  We  hire  men  to  tell  us  the 
things  we  should  like  to  believe. 

432 


THE   GREAT   PERHAPS  433 


Renan  made  Treguier  a  magic  name  in  the  his- 
tory of  mind — Treguier  which  lately  rose  in  fanati- 
cal revolt  and  sought  to  deface  his  monument.  "Oh, 
Jerusalem,  thou  who  stonest  the  prophets  1" 


VI 


Dost  thou  wish  to  be  free?  Then  prepare  thy 
soul  to  stand  alone, — for  where  freedom  is,  there 
also  is  Golgotha  and  abandonment. 


VII 


A  dear  old  friend  has  withdrawn  his  hand  and 
heart  from  me  because,  though  we  agreed  in  all 
things  that  we  knew,  we  fell  out  concerning  the 
Unknowable  I 

VIII 

God  made  man  in  his  own  image  and  likeness, 
and  this  was  well.  But  the  trouble  started  when 
man  set  about  to  return  the  compliment;  and  it  has 
been  going  on  ever  since. 


434      AT  THE  SIGN   OF  THE  VAN 


IX 


To  move  mountains  it  is  not  so  necessary  to  have 
faith  yourself  as  that  another  should  have  faith  in 
you. 


X 


The  mind  can  entertain  many  creeds — the  heart 
but  one. 


XI 


The  best  affirmation  of  immortality  is  the  human 
heart  singing  on  its  way  to  death. 


THE     ETERNAL     FEMININE 
I 

MY  mother  never  knew  the  love  for  which 
her  heart  hungered,  and  perhaps  that 
is  why  I  too  am  so  often  craving  and 
unsatisfied.     When  I  am  sometimes  made  entirely 
happy  I  fancy  that  my  mother  smiles — not  too  far 
away  I 

II 

Women  pay  dearly  for  their  brief  dominion  over 
the  senses.  Never  was  a  beauty  so  desired  against 
which  it  was  not  written — "The  food  that  to  him 
now  is  as  luscious  as  locusts  shall  be  to  him  shortly 
as  bitter  as  coloquintida." 


Ill 


The  senses  guarantee  neither  love  nor  fidelity. 
There  are  no  bitterer  foes  than  those  who  have  gone 
the  ways  of  the  flesh  together. 

435i 


436      AT  THE   SIGN   OF  THE  VAN 


IV 


Always  we  ask  ourselves,  does  He  or  She  love  us? 
The  desire  to  be  loved  is  the  first  to  come  and  the 
last  to  leave  us. 


Love  and  Hate  and  Jealousy  often  live  in  the 
same  house,  though  you  will  find  only  Love's  name 
on  the  door. 


yi 


One  must  be  very  old  indeed  when  the  heart  does 
not  whisper,  "Wait!  the  best  years  are  to  come." 


VII 


"To  be  blind  and  to  be  loved,  what  happier  fate !" 
exclaims  Hugo.  To  love  and  to  be  blind  is  the 
common  dispensation. 

VIII 

A  passion  means  the  renewal  of  youth,  a  second 
draught  of  the  enchanted  Goblet  of  Life.  That  is 


THE   ETERNAL   FEMININE       437 

the  true  reason  for  the  scandals  and  tragedies  of  the 
middle-aged. 

IX 

If  before  dying  you  might  have  one  day  of  per- 
fect life  and  health  with  any  woman  of  your  choice, 
you  would  choose  your  wife,  of  course.  Of  course. 


X 


There  is  but  one  evil  thing  in  this  world  which 
the  Devil  allows  that  he  cannot  improve — hate  that 
has  once  been  love. 


XI 


Blessed  are  the  friendships,  the  calm,  cool  friend- 
ships, that  die  a  natural  death,  leaving  neither  re- 
gret nor  rancor  1 


XII 


Only  when  the  Beloved  comes  to  him  who  has 
too  long  waited  for  her  do  the  pitying  years  strive 
to  return. 


438       AT  THE   SIGN   OF  THE   VAN 

XIII 

Many  a  man  has  tried  to  love  two  women  at  the 
same  time,  but  there  is  no  record  of  a  perfect  suc- 
cess. 


Women  never  forgive  the  debts  of  the  heart  nor 
men  the  debts  of  the  purse. 


XV 


Nature  thrives  by  tooth  and  claw:    even  love  is 
warfare  and  marriage  often  a  duel  to  the  death. 


XVI 

Every  passion  becomes  a  tyranny,  but  a  man  with- 
out passions  cannot  be  said  to  live. 


^XVII 

It  is  woman's  eternal  fate  to  make  and  to  destroy 
the  human  paradise. 


THE   ETERNAL   FEMININE        439 


XVIII 

The  heart  has  secrets  which  it  will  scarcely  whis- 
per to  the  mind. 

XIX 

The  heart  has  its  tears  and  they  are  the  bitterest 
of  all. 


THE    END 


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